


Blackbird

by gwyllion



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Cats, Cybercrimes, M/M, Protective James Bond, Romance, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond didn’t need anything or anyone. He had already lost the war that circumstance had waged against him. When his affection for Q flared, he got the love he never had, and the home he never knew he was missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vix_spes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/gifts).



_There is a blackbird sits on yon tree_  
_Some says it is blind and it cannae see_  
_And so is my true love tae me._

The war ended years ago, but Bond still fought. He rarely thought about the cruel circumstances that ensured he would never return to the life he had in Glencoe. The war was lost. He’d never have a family, or a place to call home. He could barely remember the stone walls warmed by fire in the hearth of his youth. The family gathered around the table for holidays, singing songs and eating clootie pudding while the Scottish wind howled across the highlands. The joy of love freely given. A home long forgotten and never to be experienced again. That war was over, but sometimes minor battles flared.

It irritated Bond when situations arose that brought his tragic childhood to the forefront of his mind. Distant memories sparked that couldn’t be blotted out. The fact that he couldn’t control the timing nor the strength of the memories, disturbed him most of all. On mission, he had no time for sentimentality or regret. He fought to make them disappear.

In the dimly lit embroidery shop, a front for Zoltan Saleem, the arms trafficker who funnelled funds to ISIS from British supporters, Bond gritted his teeth and went to work, concentrating on his assignment.

A child cried from the dark corner of the room.

Bond hadn’t noticed the sleeping boy when he strong-armed a confession from Saleem—the child’s father, Bond guessed. He wore the same wild eyes and expensive garb, a few cuts above that of his peers on the street outside his shop. An arms trafficker could afford such luxuries, even in this part of the world.

Bond patted his jacket pocket to feel for the tiny battery-operated screwdriver. He was calmed by its presence, a special project from Q-branch. His lips quirked into a smile when he remembered how Q had finally acquiesced and provided him with more than the Walther PPK and his radio. A useful gadget served as a fine reward for bringing back the Walther in one piece after his last assignment. Perhaps there was still hope that Q would pull together pieces of scrap that cluttered his desk to produce an exploding pen, although the head of Q-branch never seemed to have much downtime.

Bond gave the screwdriver one more pat and went to work.

The child with tear-stained cheeks toddled toward him. Bond winced when he realized the horrible truth that he had something in common with the orphaned tot.

Bond didn’t like to reminisce about his loss, especially after the recent SPECTRE incident with Blofeld’s re-emergence and subsequent capture. Whenever Bond’s childhood came to mind, he fought the intruding thoughts, willing them away with mental resolve as swift as the hands of a trained killer. Still they came, without warning, compelling Bond to crush them down. Weighty moments like these, when he scoured through the drawers and shelves that contained personal effects of another man, a father, made him nostalgic for the father and the family he didn’t have.

Bond straightened his tie and proceeded to search for the computer.

“Look for a room that’s set aside as an office. He keeps it somewhere out of sight,” Q’s voice came coolly through Bond’s earpiece. “It may have a hidden entrance.”

Bond imagined Q taking a sip of tea before making another simplistic suggestion. He knew Q had MI6’s best interests at heart, but without much field experience, Q sometimes sounded like a ten year-old playing a video game.

“I’ve got it, despite your suggestion, _Captain Obvious,_ ” Bond said, pushing open a door that at first glance appeared to be a wardrobe.

The blue light glowed from the power button of the old-school desktop computer. More signs of a life lived caught him off-guard. A stuffed gorilla, a set of building blocks, a half-deflated football cluttered the arms-trafficker’s desk. Bond shoved the litter aside. He refused to let the symbols of a normal home life interfere with his mission. He gave up any hope of living such a life when he became a double-oh agent. 

“You’ll need to remove the drive,” Q said.

“I’m already there,” Bond said, screwdriver in hand.

He effortlessly used the device to twist each tiny silver screw until the cabinet of Saleem’s computer came apart. Unfortunately, the whirring screwdriver’s head, reminiscent of a dental drill, did not drown out the child’s cries.

Bond licked his lips, tasting lemon and honey moist on his tongue. He supposed he should have thanked his host for the tea, instead he put a bullet through his head. If he hadn’t lunged at Bond with a straight-razor, Bond may have been willing to give him a chance after he turned over the data MI6 needed—and that was before he knew about the child.

Bond cringed at the thought of becoming soft in his old age. A few moments later, the computer sat useless on the desk, a bullet through its CPU. 

The scent of blood clogged Bond’s nostrils. With the hard drive stowed away in a Mylar bag, he strode back to the main room. Shafts of light filtered through the blinds revealing the coloured embroidery flosses that hung suspended on each of the walls, like webs of spider silk in every colour of the rainbow.

The little boy wailed. Blood from Saleem’s head crept slowly across the dirt floor.

“The hard drive is secure,” Bond said.

“The extraction team is on its way,” Q said, sounding no more relieved than stressed.

Bond looked sullenly at the child. He couldn’t be more than three years old. He had crawled to his father’s dead body and shook it as if he would wake to life again. When he got no response, he rubbed his tiny fists at his red eyes. 

“There’s a child here,” Bond said, not knowing when he got so sentimental that he would share such information with the MI6 Quartermaster who directed communications for most of his missions.

“What?” asked Q. “Define—child.”

“A child. Two or three years old, maybe younger,” Bond said. “I need to get him away from the body.”

“Someone will find him—a relative, with any luck,” Q said. “You need to get out. Exit the shop and turn right at the first alleyway and travel to the marketplace. Aadila will meet you there.”

Bond looked at the child, and shrugged. Q didn’t say anything about not dragging the toddler from his father’s corpse. Bond tucked the child under one arm and stepped into the street.

Outside, the sun beat down on the dusty road. The scent of roasting lamb and grilled vegetables filled the air. Rare spices with names that Bond had never learned to pronounce wafted from the community fire-pits. A trickle of sweat pooled at Bond’s lower back. The child bounced on his hip.

He turned right onto the roadway and followed the stretch of low squat buildings that lined both sides of the narrow street. Merchants hawked their wares, eager to take advantage of the crowds who gathered just before the midday call to prayer.

Bond bumped his way through the shoppers, holding the child close. He slipped into the alleyway as Q instructed.

“I’m in the alley, what now?” Bond asked.

“Go a hundred feet to the end. You’ll emerge in a large marketplace. Wait there for Aadila, she’ll collect you on the corner,” Q said. “I’ve got a drone overhead. I should have a visual on you in just… one… moment.”

The slap of Bond’s shoes on the stones echoed in the alleyway. He hiked the child higher on his hip and checked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. It was only a matter of time before Saleem’s lackeys returned to the shop and found their boss dead. Bond stopped at the end of the alley where it spilled out onto a main arena. He scanned the marketplace, looking for an adult to care for the young boy. Perhaps he’d find a sympathetic female with smiling eyes—he knew the type he needed. At least the child had stopped crying.

“Oh, I see you now,” Q said. “You’ve finally learned to do as you’re told.”

“Perish the thought,” Bond said.

“I take that back,” Q said. “What are you doing with that child?”

“You can’t expect me to follow your instructions to a tee, Q,” Bond said.

“Aadila should be along,” Q said, his voice belying his irritation.

Bond set the child down.

The dark-haired toddler stood on the dirt walkway in his Nike sneakers. His hands clung to Bond’s leg.

“Excuse me,” Bond said to a passing pair of girls in brightly coloured headscarves.

“Bond, we’ve got an issue,” Q said.

Bond ignored Q’s voice in his ear. “Can you take this child to his mother?” Bond asked. He peeled the child’s sticky hand from his trouser leg. “I think he’s lost his mum… his omma—”

“Bond, my calculations indicate that there’s a suicide bomber in the marketplace,” Q said. “I’m tracking now, to be certain.”

Bond gave up trying to communicate with the girls. Instead, he listened more intently to Q.

“He’s coming your way,” Q said. “Aadila has been put on hold.”

Bond looked up and down the main market. Swarms of shoppers talked excitedly in language too fast and frantic for Bond to translate. He couldn’t pick the bomber out of the crowd. He had to trust Q and his tracking software and algorithmic programming that allowed him to see what was happening from the drone. There were certain behaviours, nearly imperceptible anomalies that Q had trained himself to observe. If Q thought someone decided to strap on a suicide vest to take lives in a crowd, then Bond could bet that it would happen.

The girl in the fuchsia headscarf had picked up the orphaned toddler and held him in her arms.

“I don’t like the look of this,” Q said. Bond could hear Q’s fingers typing frantically on his keyboard more than two thousand miles away.

Bond knew better than to ask if there was anything to do to stop the attack, but he asked anyway. “Give me the description?” he barked out.

“It’s a teenaged boy. American Army camouflage. FDNY cap. He’s wearing a Kanye T-shirt under a flak jacket,” Q said.

Bond mused about how terrorists loved to dress their suicide bombers in American clothing. It implied the notion that their sacrifice was nobler if it involved the symbolic destruction of their enemy.

“It’s too late,” Q said. “Take cover.”

Bond reacted automatically to Q’s words. He gathered the two girls and the toddler into his arms. With one swift movement, he swept them into the doorway of the nearest shop. Amid the chaos, Bond was vaguely aware of the aroma of coffee.

Before either girl could complain about Bond’s inappropriate behaviour, an explosion burst through the marketplace. A hail of shrapnel struck the window of the coffee shop. Glass rained down on top of Bond and the people he protected. For a moment, there was silence. The boy began to cry again while the injured on the street screamed in terror. The angry cries told of lives disrupted. Then the sirens came.

“Bond?” Q said, listening from the other end of his comm link.

“I’m fine,” Bond said, brushing himself off. “Just a bit dusty.”

“You can send MI6 your dry cleaning bill,” Q said with an uncharacteristic sigh of relief. “Aadila is waiting for you outside the shop.”

Bond nodded to the two girls and left them with the toddler amid the ruined coffee.

Outside, Aadila pushed open the Land Rover’s door.

“Sir?” she said.

“Thanks for the lift,” Bond said, the glass crunching beneath his soles.

“Double-oh Seven, on his way back to London,” Aadila said into the radio after Bond climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“We’ll see you when you get back for debriefing,” Q said. “M is looking forward to learning what’s on that hard drive. And do have a safe journey home, Double-oh Seven.”

Bond pulled the earpiece from his ear and sat back for the ride.

Home was a relative concept. In some ways, MI6 gave Bond the home he never had. If it meant that he was compelled to use people with impunity, or that he sometimes suffered because of the loss of the few he loved… Vesper… Mathis… M… well, it was a fitting home for an old dog like him.

He shoved the earpiece into his pocket and realized something was missing.

He didn’t have the heart to radio Q to tell him that he had left the screwdriver somewhere in the clutter on top of Saleem’s desk. He smiled, looking forward to paying Q-branch a personal visit as soon as he returned to MI6.

~

Bond’s debriefing was mercifully short. He relinquished the hard drive to Moneypenny and Mallory sent him to medical after a five minute update on what he missed at MI6 while he was away.

Mallory’s haste to get rid of Bond struck him as a bit unusual. Normally, Mallory was keen to detain Bond for long periods of time so he could remark about his advancing age and make vague threats about cutting back on the number of high-level missions Bond undertook. But today, Mallory was all business and seemed anxious to have Bond out of his hair.

When Bond left Mallory’s office, Moneypenny was preoccupied with a phone call, so Bond merely grabbed his briefcase and winked at her when he left. They could catch up on discussing Mallory’s behaviour later in the day. Perhaps he was simply anxious to get the contents off the drive so their forces could stem the flow of weapons into the region as quickly as possible. As the new head of MI6, Mallory had been on the job for less than a year, so any strides he made toward making the world a safer place were sure to earn him high marks from the PM’s office.

Taking care to avoid Sandhya from medical who threatened to chase him down with her tablet, Bond jogged to the lift that would take him deep into the bunker beneath MI6. He flashed Sandhya an apologetic smile and tapped on his watch to indicate he was in a hurry and would check in with her later. _Fat chance,_ he thought, as the lift doors slid closed.

In the Q-branch bunker, Q’s minions were hard at work, busily typing away at their keyboards. Oversized monitors lined the brick walls like mirrors in a posh fitness club. But instead of cardio machines and treadmills, the bunker contained machines to exercise the mind. The various screens displayed the locations of each of MI6’s field agents. The flashing green lights indicated that all was well with MI6’s elite double-ohs.

The field agents who were engaged in the least dangerous parts of their missions didn’t need to be watched continuously by the keen eyes of their tech-savvy minders. The agents slept sometimes, and unless an agent was involved with a particularly steamy bedmate, they slept as boringly as everyone else. Those boffins with free time, and the motivation to use it, were tasked with completing a number of Q’s beloved pet projects, but only if their agents in the field didn’t require vigilant monitoring of their snoring slumber.

Bond straightened his tie and clasped the handle of his briefcase which contained his Walther PPK and radio. He had already replaced the MI6-issued weapon with his personal firearm in his shoulder holster, knowing that Q would want time to study the Walther after it had been used on the mission. Bond assumed Q would be pleased that he had returned with most of the equipment. It would only be a matter of time before one of the Q-Branch minions cracked the encryptions on the hard drive so the real work could begin. MI6 would take one step forward in stopping the flow of arms and making the world safe for all its citizens. Bond prided himself on a job well done.

Bond’s briefcase also contained a paper bag of rich kanafeh, sticky and sweet. Plying Q with decadent desserts was one way of thanking him for the excellent job he did on comms for the mission. Watching Q lick his lips as he savoured exotic delicacies was much more satisfying than the kick Bond would get out of something more mundane—like sending a postcard.

Any agent could send a postcard. But when it came to charming the right people, Bond liked to take things one step further. Thus, the kanafeh.

The soft glow of the monitors lit the grim brick-lined workroom with an eerie florescence. Bond supposed the minions were accustomed to their new environment after they had moved all of MI6 into the bunker late last year when Raoul Silva threatened to blow their Vauxhall headquarters to smithereens. After Blofeld finished the job, the bunkers became the permanent headquarters for MI6.

Several of the minions looked up from their keyboards when Bond entered. At the reception desk, Davis nearly drooled in anticipation of sweets as he eyed Bond’s briefcase.

Bond wandered through the sea of technology to the man who stood at the front of the cavernous room where he commanded the research and development branch of MI6. Amid the visual displays and mounds of circuitry covering his workstation, Q was engaged in an animated discussion with R.

Bond was just about to interrupt them when Bradley approached him from the direction of the breakroom. Q’s PA was as fit as any footballer. With bright blue eyes and artfully mussed hair the colour of spun gold, he looked like he stepped out of the pages of GQ instead of the MI6 secretarial pool.

“I hope you’ve got good news for the boss this time,” Bradley said with a crooked smile.

“Some good news and some bad,” Bond said.

Bradley held Q’s Scrabble mug, filled with steaming hot tea.

“How many lumps of sugar is he up to these days?” Bond asked.

“Just the usual three,” Bradley said, nodding in Q’s direction. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he requests more with the next cup. He’s having a bit of a rough one.”

Every day seemed to be rough for Q. He had been known to work tirelessly into the night, sometimes sleeping on the sofa in his office and simply changing his jumper and tie before heading back to his workstation the following morning. Some days, the dark circles under his eyes couldn’t be erased by a litre of caffeine. Bond wondered how the cats tolerated their separation from their master and provider of catnip.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bond said, glad that he brought the kanafeh for Q. He pried the mug of tea from Bradley’s grasp. “Let’s see if I can make his day better for him.”

Bradley put his hands in the air and stepped back, letting Bond take over his tea duty.

Q looked up from the tablet where he had been pointing out something that was of great interest to R. Bond sensed that Q tried not smile when he noticed the double-oh agent with his tea in his subterranean domain. But alas, it was probably just wishful thinking on Bond’s part. Unless he was on comms, Q usually kept his distance from Bond as if he were avoiding a live grenade. And Bond wouldn’t have it any other way. He loved to keep the youthful Quartermaster on his toes.

R took her tablet from Q and brushed past Bond. She headed toward the lift, her Doc Martens striking the ground in time with the bobbing of her loose ponytail.

“Ah, Double-oh Seven,” Q said. “I’ve been expecting you. I trust that everything checked out in medical?”

Bond clenched his jaw and set the mug of tea on the corner of Q’s workstation.

“I’ll give you a score of two, out of a possible ten, at trying to push my buttons,” Bond said.

Not the least bit rattled, Q perfunctorily held out a plastic tray in which he expected Bond to deposit his equipment.

“You’ll have to push a little _harder_ next time,” Bond said, opening the briefcase and removing the equipment he so thoughtfully returned to Q-branch.

“Enough with the innuendo, Bond,” Q said. “Let’s see what you’ve brought me.”

Bond dropped the case containing the gun and radio into the tray. He reached back into the briefcase.

“Indeed, I do think you’ll find that it’s almost like Christmas,” Bond said, shaking the bag containing the kanafeh.

“If that bag contains sweets, I’ll give you some credit for knowing how to best celebrate the successful completion of a mission,” Q said.

“It’s a good thing you’re dressed for a party,” Bond said, indicating Q’s bright red jumper with a wave of his hand.

Q blinked.

One of the minions snorted, obviously eavesdropping on their conversation. Q glared in the direction of the offending minion.

“Yes, well, it looks as though you’ve already had time to drop off your dry cleaning, despite avoiding medical,” Q said, taking in Bond’s immaculate suit.

“Touché,” one of the minions whispered loudly enough for the room to hear. A few of the younger techies burst into giggles.

Bond fought the urge to scowl at them.

With one hand, Q tugged at his bird’s nest of thick wavy hair. He kept his smile hidden behind closed lips. His eyes sparkled in the lights from the tech that surrounded him, making him look ethereal in the blue glow.

“All right, let’s see what we have here,” Q said, bringing his hands together and rubbing them in delight.

Bond was surprised that Q didn’t immediately go for the sweets, especially if he was having a bad day like Bradley suggested. Instead, he opened the black leather case containing Bond’s weapon.

“Oh, yes, I remember assembling you at the last moment before Bond’s latest adventure,” Q spoke lovingly to the pistol, ignoring Bond as he watched over his workstation.

Bond stood by, hands in his pockets, brilliant blue eyes gleaming as the Quartermaster unpacked the case that Bond returned. Bond knew he was irresistible to women and men alike. Half of the women, and a good percentage of the men, in MI6 would willingly fall into bed with Bond. But not Q. He presented somewhat of a challenge—a challenge that Bond hoped to overcome with finesse one day. Until then, Bond took every opportunity to entice Q into capitulating to his charms. The sweets were certainly a good start.

Bond watched as Q’s deft fingers stroked the barrel of the gun. He smiled, partly because of Q’s attempt at stroking the weapon in the most suggestive manner possible, and part because of Q’s ensemble of clothing, which Bond found amusing. The red jumper did remind Bond of Christmas. It wouldn’t have looked nearly as odd, if not for the garish oversized pocket that was stitched to the left breast. Bond supposed Q’s days of needing a pocket protector were long over since the pocket was secured shut by an obtrusive snap that looked like it was made from mother-of-pearl. Beneath his hideous jumper, a blue gingham shirt and a navy blue tie secured in a haphazardly-tied Windsor knot did nothing for Q’s emerald-flecked eyes. He’d be better off sticking to hues of grey or mossy green to bring out his best features if it were up to Bond.

Unfortunately, Q never asked for his fashion advice.

“And everything seemed to be in order when you were in the field?” Q asked, emptying the cartridge from the Walther and dropping the bullets into the tray. “Did she give you any trouble?”

“I only had to fire it twice,” Bond said, stepping closer. He lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. “After the first shot, it didn’t take very long until I was ready to shoot again.”

Q paused from looking at the weapon and caught Bond’s eye.

“Once for the trafficker and the other for his CPU,” Bond reminded him, feigning innocence.

Q cringed.

Bond observed that Q was more disapproving about the method in which he dispatched CPU than he was about Bond’s sultry assurance that his age wasn’t adversely affecting his libido.

“It’s reassuring to know that the weapon is useless in anyone else’s hands,” Bond said, remembering the many times that the green indicator lights put his mind at ease. He truly appreciated the care that Q put into devising useful weapons and tools for the MI6 agents. “I’m glad you think so highly of me that you devised such a safeguard.”

“It’s what I would do for any of my agents, whether I thought highly of them or not,” Q said, lifting the radio from its designated slot in the case. “No need for a distress call this time?”

Q pushed on the device and watched the miniature antenna rise from its casing.

“Not this time, although it was close with the self-destructing teenager,” Bond said.

Q hummed in agreement. “I suspect that impressionable young men make the best suicide bombers,” he said.

“I can’t remember ever being _that_ impressionable,” Bond said, wondering if Q would respond with an admission from his own youth that would give Bond more insight into what made Q tick. After all, it couldn’t have been too many years ago that Q found himself an impressionable youth, enthralled with the prospect of new technology and the mark he would leave on the world—even if it wasn’t a self-induced explosion that sent his guts flying through a busy marketplace.

“Nor I,” Q said, refusing to take Bond’s bait.

“I didn’t forget the earpiece this time,” Bond said, pleased with himself. He pulled the tiny earpiece from his jacket pocket and dropped it into the tray.

Q looked at him suspiciously, an eyebrow raised beneath his wild hair.

“I’m just doing my best to please the staff at Q-branch,” Bond said.

“Well that’s a pleasant change,” Q said, inspecting the earpiece.

“I hear their Quartermaster is sensitive about the abuse of his _equipment_ ,” Bond said, his voice a low purr. 

A flush crept up Q’s neck as he shook his head vigorously, as if to dissipate the effect of Bond’s comments.

“Three out of four pieces of equipment returned from a mission? This must be a new record for you,” Q said coolly.

“Well, they say nobody’s perfect,” Bond said. “Not even me. It will give me a goal to work toward in future missions.”

“Do try, Bond. Still, three out of the four pieces returned to Q-branch is amazing,” Q said. “This is a red-letter day.” 

“It matches your jumper,” Bond said, his eyes roving over Q’s outfit.

Q side-eyed Bond. “I may notify HMQ.”

“I don’t think there’s a need to go that far, but it seems I must be deserving of a special reward of some sort,” Bond said.

“No,” Q said, shaking his head. “I don’t have favourites. I fear it would make the other agents jealous if they thought I was showing you favouritism—and the other agents usually bring back all of their equipment without fail, except in the very rarest of circumstances.”

Bond grinned at the thought Q having favourite agents. Although Q would never admit it, Bond was certain that his name was quite near the top of the list. “You could at least take me to lunch,” Bond said, “in light of my incredible accomplishment.”

Bond watched the thoughts turning in Q’s head.

“Rewarding good behaviour may ensure the safety of your precious equipment in the future,” Bond said, trying to tone down the seduction in his voice and well aware that sometimes he simply couldn’t help it.

“Now, there’s an idea I might get on-board with,” Q said, a hand going to his belly. “I was just getting hungry and M has been getting on me about keeping my energy level up.”

“Thai?” Bond asked, hiding his surprise that Q actually agreed with him. He knew of a small private place around the block from MI6 where the owner owed him a favour. He was sure he could get a table.

“Give me five minutes to get my workstation locked down before I change my mind. I’ll meet you on the main level,” Q said.

Bond smiled and stepped back from Q’s desk. “Five minutes then,” he said. Before he headed toward the lift, Q stopped him.

“Oh, and Bond,” Q said conspiratorially, “Lest you get your hopes up, this is _not_ a date.”

An audible wave of disappointment rose from the minions.

~

Sira Thai was just around the corner from MI6. Bond silenced his mobile and restrained himself from taking Q’s arm as they walked among the Londoners who were on their way to business meetings or enjoying a lunch break. 

A mist hung in the air, dampening the city streets, although no rain fell. The bright blooms that decorated the window-boxes Bond and Q passed on the way to the restaurant gave a feel of brightness to the day, despite the chill of early spring.

“Here we are,” Bond said, nodding to the unmarked doorway. He grasped the golden dragon that served as the door handle. “You’re in for a real treat.”

Bond pressed his palm against the small of Q’s back and ushered him inside.

They were immediately greeted by a bespectacled Asian man wearing black trousers and a grey caftan embroidered in gold.

“Mr. Bond, we’ve been expecting you,” the man said.

“Natthapong, this is my colleague,” Bond said. “He’s very fond of Thai food, so I convinced him to take me here for lunch.”

“A very good decision, Mr. Bond,” Natthapong said. “If you will come this way.”

Natthapong led the men to a room with dark wooden panelling. A table occupied each corner of the dining area. The scent of rich spices drifted through the air and Bond recognized cardamom and clove, coriander and mint. Pairs of diners sat at three of the tables, already enjoying the succulent foods and exotic teas. Although the room was small, the quiet ambiance offered enough space for conversation.

Natthapong showed them to the only empty table, holding Q’s chair out for him in respect for Bond’s _friend_.

“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” Natthapong asked as he placed a pair of menus on the table.

“Tea please,” Q said, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“Of course,” Natthapong said with a bow of his head. “I’ll bring a pot to begin. Please enjoy yourselves and do not hesitate to ask if you have any questions about our menu.”

Bond nodded in thanks to Natthapong and opened a menu.

After a few moments, Bond said, “You’ll find that their tiger prawns with lemongrass are among the best you’ll ever have.”

“I’m sure they rival those found on the streets of Bangkok,” Q said, opening his own menu. “Where do you even find these places?”

“Years of careful research,” Bond said.

Q smiled and turned his eyes to his menu.

“The Green Curry sounds interesting,” Q said. “Coconut milk, aubergine, bamboo shoots, long beans and sweet basil leaves, char-grilled steak.”

“You say _aubergine_ like a Parisian,” Bond said.

Q smiled without taking his eyes off the menu. “I lived there for a few years when I was a child,” he said. 

“Paris?” Bond asked.

“Yes,” Q said. “I haven’t managed to rid myself of the posh accent, no matter how much time I spent at MIT.”

“Thank God for small favours,” Bond said. “Do you visit Paris often?”

“Sometimes for the holidays, not that it’s any of your business,” Q said. “My sister still lives there.”

“Older or younger?” Bond asked.

“Older,” Q said, looking up. “Emily… she’s a paediatrician.”

“So intelligence swims in your gene pool?” Bond said. In the dim light, he couldn’t be sure if Q was blushing, but he ventured to guess that he was.

Natthapong appeared at the table with a pot of tea. He gracefully turned each cup over from Bond and Q’s place settings so he could fill them from the steaming pot. He took their order—green curry for Q and the prawns for Bond.

“Emmett….” Bond said, without preamble after Natthapong left the table. He was vaguely disappointed when Q didn’t react.

“Emory,” Bond tried again.

Nothing.

“Emerson?”

“What are you on about?” asked Q.

“Emile….? Emsley…?” Bond continued.

“Good luck,” Q said with a grin. “I see what you’re doing there.”

“It didn’t take a genius,” Bond said.

“I’ll have you know, my name does not start with the same syllable as my sister’s,” Q said. “Besides, since you know I’m a genius, whatever would make you think I would tell you my sister’s real name?”

Bond smiled. “You might at least tell me if I guessed correctly,” Bond said. “It’s not like you can’t trust me.”

“Au contraire, monsieur,” Q said. “You’re too dangerous to trust.”

“But I trust you with my life,” Bond said.

“Just barely,” Q said. “And only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

They sipped their tea and before long, Natthapong brought their food to the table.

Bond and Q’s quiet conversation continued. Bond wanted to learn as much as he could about the Quartermaster in hopes that it would secure his position as the favourite agent at Q-branch. Perhaps if they became close enough, Q might consider developing the coveted exploding pen that Bond always pestered him about. At the very least, developing a genuine friendship with Q might quell Bond’s desire to bed him, although it seemed unlikely on both counts.

As Bond watched Q slice through the tender beef, he let his mind wander, imagining what it would be like to bed Q. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wondered how Q would look, spread out naked on white Egyptian cotton sheets, his head thrown back in ecstasy as Bond brought him to the brink over and over again with his mouth, his hands, his lips. How Bond would make him writhe in pleasure as he came undone….

“Bond?” Q asked.

“Yes?” Bond asked, startled back to the present. “I was just savouring this prawn.”

“I asked about Skyfall,” Q said, slicing another piece of beef. “It must have been lonely growing up in such a remote location.”

Bond had rarely thought about Skyfall until it became his and M’s chosen destination as they tried to outwit Silva. The cold grey walls of Skyfall did nothing to warm his heart like the memory of a childhood home would for any other child. The years that followed his exile from the family estate found him a wanderer who moved from place to place, never truly fitting in no matter where he went.

Bond did his best to view his lack of a permanent home as something necessary for his soul. When he had no home, he made his home everywhere—his dorm room, his ship, every beachcomber’s pub from Bora Bora to the Maldives. These were the only homes he knew. He recounted them as if each setting was something to be endured and overcome before moving on to the next four walls that would contain him.

“Yes, well, it’s all reduced to rubble now,” Bond said. “I never felt the need to go back for a visit before the Silva situation, and certainly not after.”

“I can understand why,” Q said.

Bond stabbed another prawn. “What about _your_ parents?” Bond asked. “Do they live in Paris, or perhaps London?”

Bond knew from the look on Q’s face that he had overstepped his bounds. Despite sharing information about his sister, Q always seemed to be the type of colleague who kept his professional life separate from his personal life.

Q set his fork down. “They were killed in an aviation accident,” he said.

Bond stopped breathing. “Q, I’m so sorry,” he said, truly meaning it.

Q shook his head. “My father liked to invent things. He had built an electricity-powered paramotor and brought my mum along for a test flight. The test failed,” Q said. “I was in my third year of uni.” 

Bond thought about Q’s age. He wondered if the loss of his own parents would have been a bit less traumatic if he had matured into adulthood before they died.

“My sister and I were old enough to carry on without them. It’s not as if we went to be raised in an orphanage or anything like that,” Q said before taking a bite of eggplant.

Q’s fear of flying suddenly came to Bond’s mind. “So, that’s why….” he began.

“Flying?” Q asked. “At the risk of sounding daft, I avoid it whenever possible.”

“Understandably,” Bond said, “and not daft in the least.”

Q took a sip of tea.

Bond wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Look, I want to apologize if I’ve ever been crass about your aversion to flying,” he said.

“Don’t,” Q said with a wave of his hand. “You had no way of knowing about my parents.”

“It’s not in your file,” Bond said with a guilty gleam in his eye, his hand wrapped around his water glass.

Q nearly choked on his bite of food. “My file has been redacted. Any investigation you may have embarked upon would have been futile. MI6 manages its personnel that way for very good reasons.”

“Ah, so it was a lie that you started to work for MI6 only two years ago and not only earned the respect of your supervisors but also influenced just the right people, so much so that M made you the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history?” Bond asked.

“Someone’s done his homework,” Q said.

“It’s my job to be curious,” Bond said.

“Just the right people... you must miss the old M,” Q said. “The M who hired me.”

Q put down his fork.

“The M who died at Skyfall... in some ways she was like a mother to me,” Bond said, surprising himself that he shared such sentiments with Q.

“I wanted to quit MI6 after her death,” Q said. “I had a hard time dealing with it, even though I didn’t know her as well as you or the other double-oh agents did.”

“You felt responsible for her death?” Bond asked.

“I felt responsible that Silva escaped,” Q said.

“You couldn’t possibly have been more at fault than I for that whole ordeal,” Bond said. “She died in my arms, you know. There was nothing I could do to save her.”

“And yet you never considered leaving MI6 after her death?” Q asked.

“She wouldn’t have wanted that,” Bond said. “And she wouldn’t have wanted you to leave either. She trusted you. She had confidence in your abilities. We all do… myself included.”

When they finished eating their meals, Natthapong brought a bowl of sticky rice and mango to their table for them to share.

“I swear, Bond,” Q said, eyeing Natthapong, “he thinks we’re on a date.”

Bond grinned and stabbed a piece of mango with his fork.

“If you’ve somehow insinuated to him that we are on a date, you’ll live to regret it,” Q said, his voice a hushed whisper.

“What would you do to me?” Bond asked, licking the mango juice from his lips. “Destroy my after-action report, so I have to start typing it again?

“I’ll have you know, I’m not one to be trifled with,” Q said, narrowing his eyes.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bond said before spooning a heap of sticky rice into his mouth.

“I could hack into your accounts and ruin your credit. Or worse, I could wipe the contact information for your numerous paramours from your mobile,” Q said wiping his hands on his napkin.

“Jealous?” Bond asked.

“Insufferable twat,” Q said.

“So much for your dedication to the agents of MI6,” Bond said.

“You’ve finally found me out,” Q said, applauding lightly. “I’m really here to bring about the downfall of MI6.”

“Just as I suspected,” Bond said. “I can never trust the nerdy ones.”

“I’m not _that_ nerdy,” Q said defensively.

“Of course not,” Bond said. “Outside of work, you do all sorts of non-nerdy things for fun.”

“I do!” Q insisted.

“Like what?” Bond asked, leaning toward Q with curiosity.

“I have hobbies. I have pets,” Q said.

Bond loved getting Q riled up. “Ahhh yes, lest I forget the snarling cats.”

“You remembered,” Q said. “I have two highly intelligent cats that rely on me as their carer.”

“See, even your cats are nerdy,” Bond said.

“They’re not nerdy cats,” Q said.

“No?” Bond asked. “What are their names?”

“Copernicus and Galileo. Why?” asked Q.

“I rest my case,” Bond said.

Q huffed out a breath and rested back into his chair.

Bond sipped his tea.

Natthapong stopped at the table and refilled their water glasses. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” he asked.

“I think we’re finished here,” Q said.

“Everything was perfect,” Bond said. “I’m sure my friend will be dining here often.”

“Very well Mr. Bond,” Natthapong said. “I will bring you your check.”

“I would eat here again,” Q said, after Natthapong was out of earshot. “I love Thai. I wonder if he does take-away?”

“I’m guessing that you live nearby,” Bond said.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Q said.

“So, you like Thai food and you have a pair of cats. What else does a nerdy Quartermaster do for fun?” Bond asked.

“I invent things. I hold more than two dozen patents,” Q said. “Surely you know that from work, but I design things at home as well.

“Where?” Bond asked. “I don’t suppose we’re neighbours?”

“That’s classified information,” Q said. “If I told you where I lived, I’d have to kill you.”

“Nonsense,” Bond said. “You couldn’t harm a fly. Besides, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Q laughed. “Yes, like your obsession with your Quartermaster,” he said.

Natthapong soon brought the check to the table. Q laid his hand on the leather folder that held the bill.

“My treat,” Q said. “And truly, this has been far more enjoyable than I thought it would be when we left MI6.”

“But still not entertaining enough to be called a date?” Bond asked.

Q snorted a laugh. He swiftly took a credit card from his wallet and slid it into the pocket of the leather folder that contained their lunch bill.

“Thanks for lunch,” Bond said. “I hope we can do it again sometime.”

Natthapong slipped into the room and collected the leather folder.

Bond studied Q while he sipped his tea. The sated feeling in his belly and the delightful company made this a lunch to remember. He watched Q’s Adam’s apple slide up and down as he swallowed another gulp of water, his long elegant fingers tracing patterns in the condensation of his glass. He wondered if Q was sensitive there, at his Adam’s apple, or at the crease of his neck, as Bond had been when Silva taunted him on his island last year. Bond knew from experience that some physical reactions were unavoidable when the body’s erogenous zones were triggered by a touch.

He wondered if Q liked to be touched by a man. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend. No, he hadn’t even been on a date lately if Bond could believe the minions’ gossip in the breakroom.

Bond guessed that he could pry some information from Moneypenny if he truly wanted it. She and Q were as thick as thieves. He made a mental note to ask her about Q’s dating habits when they got back to MI6.

Q licked his lips, making them shiny and red, even in the dim light of the restaurant.

Bond imagined Q’s lips plump and swollen from the exertion of sucking his cock. What Bond wouldn’t give to see Q on his knees, begging for Bond’s cock to fuck his mouth. Bonds fingers buried deep in Q’s thick hair, Q’s glasses askew on his face… Bond wondered what Q would say if he dared to ask him right now, _Do you like to suck cock, Q? If you do, there’s something I’d be willing to volunteer for._

It would almost be worth it to see his cheeks burn crimson as his flustered hands tugged at his hair.

Someday Bond would have his way. He’d take the Quartermaster apart and put him back together again, only so he could use him over and over. Until that day came, Bond would bide his time. Q seemed to be duly impressed that he had trained Bond to bring most of the equipment back from a mission. Perhaps if things were to continue in that vein, Bond would be successful at wooing Q into his bed.

Natthapong returned to the table. “I’m sorry sir,” he said, leaving the leather folder by Q’s right hand. “Your credit card has been declined.”

“That’s strange,” Q said. “I just used it this morning.” He nodded at Bond as if to confirm the truth of what he spoke. 

“Probably just an oversight,” Bond said, reaching for his wallet. “We can use mine.”

“No, no,” Q said. “I think I have enough cash.”

“We’ll get it sorted out when we get back to MI6,” Bond said.

“It’s still bloody embarrassing,” Q said, digging twenty-pound notes out of his wallet. “If I find out that one of the minions tampered with the account—”

“Of course they didn’t,” Bond said, laying his hand flat on the table between them. “They know how much trouble they would have with you. They wouldn’t dare.”

“They’ve been known to be tricksters before,” Q said, “but if they had anything to do with this, they’ve gone too far.”

It was time to leave. Q slid out of his chair, leaving the money on the table. Bond followed him out the door.

~

When Bond and Q arrived at the pedestrian entrance to MI6, the building was in full lockdown. Bond hadn’t seen so many military vehicles guarding the streets since Silva blew out the top floors of the old MI6 building. Sirens sounded and the blue lights of police vehicles cast their glaring beams across the river and down the traffic-choked roads. 

“What’s going on?” Bond asked Reggie, one of the regular guards who greeted Bond when he arrived at the office.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Reggie said. “We’ve got orders to prevent anyone without their credentials from passing this checkpoint. Everyone needs to swipe here before they can get on the water shuttle. Swipe again at the lifts. The PM’s office has put out word that security would be compromised this afternoon.”

“That’s strange,” Q said. “They’ve got traffic shut down on the Thames. You’d think we would have heard something from M while we were at lunch.”

“I had my mobile turned off,” Bond said.

“Well, mine was turned on,” Q said, taking the mobile from his pocket. “But it didn’t vibrate.”

Normally the security guards recognized MI6 personnel and waved them through clearance. Today, Bond noticed that they were making everyone swipe their identification badges through the sensor before embarking on the water shuttle to the main pedestrian lifts.

“That’s odd,” Q said, looking at the display on his mobile. “It looks fine.” He pocketed his mobile and got in line behind Bond.

A dozen MI6 employees were returning from their lunch break. While he stood in line, Bond dug his identification from his wallet.

Q, who always wore his name badge affixed to his belt, simply readied the identification by loosening its lanyard.

When they arrived at the security gate, Bond swiped first. A green light illuminated on the device and the guard allowed him onto the waiting dock where a water shuttle loaded up a half-dozen passengers at a time.

Bond turned to wait for Q to make his way through the security protocol. He slipped his identification back into his wallet.

Q swiped his badge through the sensor. However, unlike Bond’s pass through the checkpoint, the lights on the sensor glowed red.

“You’ve had your turn,” Reggie said. “If you’re not permitted to enter, there’s nothing we can do. Step back and let the others through.”

“But I’m _Q_ ,” Q said. “I’m the department head of Q-branch. There’s no way I would be prohibited from entering MI6.”

“Step back, sir,” Reggie said. “You’re not permitted to enter.”

“Are you sure?” Bond asked. Nothing seemed as strange as Q being denied entry to MI6.

“You saw the light,” Reggie said, his M4A1 carbine at the ready.

Q reluctantly stepped aside and let the others move through the line.

“Someone is out to ruin your day,” Bond said meeting Q through a narrow opening further down the barrier of steel bars that separated those who were permitted to enter MI6 and those who were not.

“But I have so much work to do,” Q said. “This is insanity. I knew I shouldn’t have gone to lunch with you.”

“Calm yourself,” Bond said. “I’m sure it’s just an oversight of some sort.”

“I have an idea,” Q said. He moved along the barrier to a span of border where few people wandered.

“What are you thinking?’ Bond asked.

“I know of a back way into my office,” Q said. “There’s a hidden door in a maintenance building in St. James Park. It leads to a short tunnel. I use it sometimes when I stay late and I leave for home after the car service has stopped for the night. I programmed the entry codes to the door myself.”

“Do you think you can get inside from there?” Bond asked.

“I can try,” Q said. “I don’t think anyone knows about it enough to bother with it and I’ve never had any trouble getting in before.”

“It sounds like a good idea,” Bond said. “Go. In the meantime, I’ll visit M’s office and try to figure out what’s going on. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“All right,” Q said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Unless you can’t get in,” Bond said.

“Bond?” Q asked with a grin. “What do you take me for?”

“You’re right,” Bond said. Of course Q would be able to get into his own office. To think that he couldn’t, would be preposterous. It was good to see Q smile again, after the stressful incident with the credit card incident in the restaurant. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Bond stood at the barrier and watched Q leave the main entrance. It didn’t surprise him to learn that Q had a back entrance to his office. Bond only hoped that could get there unimpeded. He stepped onto the next available water shuttle and soon arrived at the lifts.

Inside the lobby, the employees of MI6 seemed tense. Bond pushed his way onto the first lift that stopped on the ground floor.

When he reached the floor with the executive offices, he strode directly toward M’s office. Moneypenny greeted him first.

“James, I’m so relieved to see you,” Moneypenny said, rising up from her chair to hug Bond.

Bond wrapped her in his arms, his hands sliding over the smooth silk of her blouse. She was shaking.

“Are you all right?” Bond asked.

“What on Earth is going on?” Moneypenny asked, stepping back from his embrace.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Bond said.

“Is Q with you?” Moneypenny asked.

“No, I had to leave him outside,” Bond said.

“I feared that might happen,” Moneypenny said.

“The guards wouldn’t let him in, so he’s gone to try another entrance to his office,” Bond said.

“I’m afraid that might be of no use,” Moneypenny said. She walked behind her desk and brought up the screen on her computer. “Take a look.”

Bond squeezed beside her and read the message on the screen.

“Everyone received this message simultaneously,” Moneypenny said. “Tanner was here having lunch at my desk and he got it on his mobile. Mallory’s been locked in his office ever since.”

Bond read the message.

Effective Immediately:  
Owing to actions against Her Majesty’s Government, this individual is no longer in the employ of MI6.  
He is no longer permitted on MI6 grounds and his security clearance has been revoked.

Beneath the words, the image of Q posing for the photo on his MI6 identification badge photo leapt off the screen.

“Q?” Bond asked. “What has he done?”

“No one knows. This has to be a mistake,” Moneypenny said. “Tanner rushed down to Q-Branch to see if he could learn anything more.”

“Q won’t be able to get into his office,” Bond said. Even if Q made it through his secret entrance, there were bound to be guards looking for him to try just such a thing in Q-branch. Bond feared that Q was going to get himself killed.

“You need to find him,” Moneypenny said. “Promise me you’ll take care of him. He must be so distressed over this.”

“I want to talk to Mallory,” Bond said.

“He’s not exactly answering my requests right now,” Moneypenny said, motioning toward Mallory’s closed door.

Bond needed to find Q. Someone had to warn him about his status. If he were caught sneaking into MI6, he could be shot. Bond ran toward the lifts.

“Where are you going?” Moneypenny asked.

“I need to get to Q-branch before Q does,” Bond said.

~

Bond tapped his foot impatiently as he descended in the lift to Q-branch. His mind raced, searching for any possible scenario in which Q may have been disloyal to MI6. He could find none.

If he had learned anything during his lengthy career as a double-oh agent, Bond knew he could rely on his instinct to suss out when an individual warranted suspicion. In Q, Bond found only intelligence, loyalty, and a willingness to bend a rule only when it served the greater good. That, and Q had the uncanny habit of flaunting his perfectly shaped arse wherever Bond might best notice it, just to annoy him. Perhaps it was unintentional, but Bond still found fault with the sheer cruelty of his teasing.

Aside from that, Q was a consummate professional and utterly devoted to his Queen and Country.

The lift doors opened into the subterranean offices of Q-branch. It may as well have been a morgue.

The minions barely took their eyes off their monitors. Someone sniffled at their desk. It was clear to Bond that Q hadn’t gained entry through his secret entrance. At the head of the room, an armed guard stood outside Q’s open office door. Tanner and R were seated at Q’s workstation. R’s eyes were rimmed with red as if she had been crying.

“Bond,” Tanner said, standing when he saw him. “Thank God you’re here.”

“I just heard,” Bond said.

“I had nothing to do with this, I swear,” R said, wiping her eyes.

“No, of course you didn’t,” Bond said. He almost offered her his handkerchief until he realized she still had a half box of tissues with her. The missing half was balled up in Q’s bin beneath his workstation.

“Thanks for believing me, Bond,” R said. “I’m not ready for this. I can’t take over for Q. They need to let him come back. Tell me this is all some horrible mistake?”

“I’m fairly sure of it,” Bond said.

Bond undid the button of his jacket and squatted beside R. In an effort to comfort her, he stroked her hair, his fingers catching in her ponytail.

“I’m scared,” R said. “What if something like this happens to me next? I can’t lose my job. I have a husband, a family.”

“You’ll be fine,” Bond said, his eyes scanning the projects on Q’s workstation. “Nothing will happen to you.”

There had to be some clue there that would help Bond figure out why this had happened, but nothing Q was working on looked out of place or even remotely suspicious.

“If Q were here, he would want you to carry on and try to do the best you can,” Bond said. “I’m sure he’d tell you the same thing if he were here to speak for himself.”

Bond eyed the open door to Q’s office, but only silence came from the room beyond. He rose from R’s side and nodded to the guard.

Buttoning his jacket, Bond pulled Tanner aside.

“Any idea what’s going on?” Bond asked.

“I’m just as shocked as you are,” Tanner said.

“You don’t believe Q did anything that would warrant this?” Bond asked.

“Of course not,” Tanner said. “Q is the most loyal, the most professional employee of all of MI6. It’s unthinkable that they’ve burned him like this.”

“You know, and I know, that there’s only one person who can get to the bottom of this,” Bond said.

“Q,” Tanner said with a nod.

“I’ll hazard a guess that he’ll need his laptop to do it,” Bond said. If there was any way that this situation was going to be resolved, Q needed to work with them. And to help them, Q would need his laptop with all of his customizations. Bond was sure of it. Even if the machine had been wiped clean of data, Q would find a way to make it useful.

“But the guard?” Tanner said.

“He’s on the lookout for Q to try to return to the branch,” Bond said. “He may not care if equipment goes missing.”

“Funny, the only one who cared about missing equipment was Q,” Tanner said. “Here, I have an idea.”

Tanner pulled his mobile from his pocket and tapped at the screen.

“Well, if it’s all right with Mallory, I guess you can bring it to him,” Tanner announced to Bond.

He walked to the guard and Bond followed. Waving his mobile at the guard, Tanner said, “M wants Double-oh Seven to bring Q’s laptop up to his office.”

Bond caught on to Tanner’s plan.

“MI6 wants to search it,” Bond said. He then whispered to the guard, “And they don’t want it to stay in the hands of Q-branch… you know, in case of _sympathizers.”_

From across the room, R sniffled, as if on cue.

“Fine with me, as long as M said he needed it,” the guard said, moving aside.

Stepping into Q’s office, Bond spotted the laptop lying dormant on Q’s desk. Surely Q would have arrived here by now if he had managed to sneak in through his secret entrance, but there was no sign of him.

Bond spied around the room, looking for where Q’s secret entrance might be. He suspected it was the steel door behind a shelving unit that was cluttered with the many books and unfinished projects Q had amassed in their new digs. In any case, Q hadn’t been there since the lockdown, as far as Bond could tell.

Not wanting to delay getting the laptop, Bond slipped it into the messenger hanging from the back of the chair. He noticed the untouched bag of kanafeh Q had left on his desk. Bond sighed and tossed it into the messenger bag alongside the laptop. It was a pity that Q hadn’t yet enjoyed his little gift. Bond let his fingers linger along the backrest to Q’s chair. He gave it a squeeze, hoping that the Quartermaster would soon be back at work.

Before he left Q’s office, Bond mouthed a _thank you_ to Tanner for his cooperation and his brilliant idea. Shouldering the messenger bag, Bond set off to find Q.

~


	2. Chapter 2

Bond stepped off the water shuttle and scanned the MI6 entrance on the Thames for Q. In the time it had taken him to get to Mallory’s office and back down to Q-branch to procure Q’s laptop with Tanner, the entrance had become deserted, aside from Reggie and his team of armed guards. Bond thought that Q might meet him back here if he was unable to reach his office, but Q was nowhere in sight.

Bond dug his mobile from his pocket and tried to ring Q. According to the automated message, Q’s number was out of service. He pocketed his mobile and decided against circling the streets that bordered MI6 on foot. Instead, he’d make a pass in the Aston Martin and hope that he found Q quickly. He didn’t think Q was in imminent danger since he hadn’t gained access to his guarded office, but it was best to not take any chances. 

Making his way to the MI6 garage, Bond kept his eyes open for Q’s red jumper. Since Q left the office with only the clothes on his back, he wouldn’t be difficult to find. Besides, Q might be looking for Bond to help sort out the mess with his credentials.

Bond shifted the Aston Martin through her gears and sped out of the garage, Q’s messenger bag safe in the boot. Traffic in Westminster was light for a Thursday afternoon. The rush hour hadn’t yet begun. Bond drove slowly along Parliament Square, down Tothill Street, turning onto Broadway. It was here that he found Q, standing outside the St. James Park tube station.

Bond pulled up beside Q and rolled down the window.

“Q?” Bond called.

Q barely looked up from where he was stood. A weak smile crossed his face when he recognized that Bond had come to find him.

“Get in,” Bond said. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Q rounded the Aston Martin and climbed in the passenger’s side.

He slumped into the seat and buckled in.

“I wish I knew what was going on,” Q said as Bond pulled away from the kerb.

“It’s bad,” Bond said, swerving back onto the road.

“I got to my door from the maintenance building that I told you about,” Q said. “I couldn’t get in. My keypad had been reprogrammed.”

Bond exhaled. He was glad Q didn’t get in. With MI6 on red alert for a trespasser, the denial of entry may have been what kept him from being shot or killed.

“As far as I can recall, there were only two people who knew the door existed, besides me,” Q said.

“Mallory?” Bond asked.

“Him and possibly Hammond,” Q said, mentioning the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs.

“I tried to meet with Mallory, but he had locked himself away,” Bond said as they turned onto the A3212 and drove straight past MI5. “Eve will get him to talk to me when he comes out of his cave. She showed me a message that had been sent to all MI6 staff. I’m sorry to say that it looks like they’re washing their hands of you.”

A sprinkling of rain had begun. Q turned away from Bond. He rested his head against the window and watched the raindrops splash down into the placid Thames, each drop creating a widening circle as it landed.

“When I couldn’t get in, I decided I’d go home and make some calls to try to get this cleared up. I got to the tube station, thinking to catch the train since it’s not likely I could use the MI6 car service,” Q said. “But my Oyster card wouldn’t work in the stiles. I didn’t have enough money for the train because I used what cash I had to pay for lunch. I was about to start walking home when you turned up.”

“You could have tried busking for tube fare,” Bond said, trying to lighten the heavy mood.

“I have a terrible singing voice,” Q said, without missing a beat.

“In that case, try juggling,” Bond said. “Besides, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s raining now and you’d get soaked.”

Bond turned on the windscreen wipers. 

“Why is this happening to me?” Q asked earnestly.

Q sounded genuinely innocent, either a victim of very bad luck or an intentional plot to ruin his life. Bond wanted to reach over to comfort him, to pet his hair the way he had done for R, to hug him like he did Moneypenny. He wished he could wake Q up from this bad dream.

“Where are we going?” Q asked when they crossed the Battersea Bridge.

“Thirty-four Putney Heath Lane,” Bond said.

Q snorted. “If you know my address, maybe you can figure out why this happened to me. Use your secret agent skills. They must be good for something other than stalking the Quartermaster.”

“That’s the idea,” Bond said.

“I’m glad I can rely on you for assistance,” Q said. “Do you have any idea what I could have done that would have me in so much trouble? It’s a mistake, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Bond said turning onto A3205. “But we’ll get this sorted.”

“You believe me, then?” Q asked. “You believe that I didn’t do anything that warranted this?”

“Yes, Q,” Bond said. “I believe you.”

Q settled back into his seat.

After a few moments, Q said, “If I find out you had anything to do with this—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bond said with a scowl. “You’re smarter than that. You should know I’d never do any such thing.”

“No, Bond,” Q said. “I’m actually _not_ smarter than that. This whole ordeal, beginning with you luring me into taking you to lunch, seems like just the sort of thing that you might pull as part of an enormous prank to yank the Quartermaster’s chain. Perhaps I was stupid enough to fall for it.”

“If you think that, you’ve gone mad,” Bond said, pulling up to stop at the end unit of a neat row of attached houses. It wasn’t as posh as Putney Hill, but the freshly painted exterior and tasteful architecture befitted the Quartermaster of MI6. 

The rain fell on the shrubbery outside Q’s door. Spring’s bloom of fresh leafy foliage sagged under the weight of the raindrops. The trees were in need of a trim, but with the long hours Q spent at MI6, Bond could understand that gardening was low on his list of priorities.

Before Bond could threaten Q with the EJECT button, Q got out of the car and said, “Thanks for the lift.” He slammed the car door shut before Bond could respond.

“Any time,” Bond said, angry that Q would think that he had anything to do with his excommunication from MI6, even as a joke.

Q jogged to the low white picket gate that bordered his dooryard.

Bond waited until Q got the gate open.

As Q walked through the raindrops to his front door, Bond shifted into gear and drove away. 

Between wondering if Q had really cocked something up that led him to be cut loose as Quartermaster, and worrying that Q would be assassinated by the MI6 juggernaut, Bond had his fill of stress for one day. He was hurt. How dare Q accuse Bond of tampering with his credentials when he was genuinely concerned about him?

Fuck Q.

Well, there was that….

Bond nearly made it all the way to Branford Gardens before he realized he had left Q’s laptop in the boot. He hit the brakes and narrowly avoided a collision when he turned around in the middle of the A3 to start backtracking to Putney. Q had better damn well appreciate it.

Bond was barely surprised when he found Q sitting on the steps outside his front door.

Bond left the Aston Martin running and strode through the white picket gate, raindrops landing on the shoulders of his jacket. Q shivered in the cold, his jumper soaked through.

“Q?” Bond asked.

Q didn’t move. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said, his wet hair nearly obscuring his eyes. “The lock… sometimes it sticks, but never like this.”

“Oh Christ, do you believe me now when I tell you that I had nothing to do with this?” Bond said. He went to the door.

Q’s key dangled from the lock. Bond gave it a try, but the tumblers wouldn’t turn. Bond worried that the key would snap off if he really put his back into it. Worse still, he worried that breaking down the door would call attention to Q’s location. It was no secret that a government asset like Q could be a target for enemy operatives who would try to use him as a hostage or torture him for inside information. Someone clearly wanted to make sure Q couldn’t enter his own home. If someone was watching, knowing that Q was no longer under the protection of MI6, Q wasn’t safe here. 

“Tell me this is the part when you come clean and say, _I got you, Q! I’ve really put one over on you today,”_ Q said.

“I’m sorry, Q,” Bond said. “I wish I could.”

“Tell me the lock is only stuck, Bond,” Q said.

Bond wanted to shake Q. He wanted to make him understand that if something had been done to the locks of his own home, he was in danger. In the time that it had taken to have lunch today, all of this horrible plan had been put into motion. Q’s life, as he knew it, had been destroyed.

Bond knew the feeling all too well, but for Q, this was likely the first time he had ever experienced such a thing. Bond had suffered so many losses in his life that he almost welcomed the next one, a chance to wipe the slate clean and start over. He was an old pro at reinventing a life for himself. His parent’s death, Eton, the Royal Navy, Vesper, being shot by Moneypenny, M’s death, Blofeld, Madeleine—each time Bond had accepted his losses and moved on as a stronger person, more calculating and more keen. He waited stoically for the next bullet to rip through him, his resolve toughened from all the deflections he had weathered in his lifetime.

Standing outside Q’s house in the rain, Bond wracked his brain trying to think of what Q could possibly have done to send such an alarm through MI6 that their only option was to burn him. 

“Q,” Bond said. “You can’t stay here. Someone will call the police if they see you loitering and we can’t break the door down in broad daylight without someone reporting it. We don’t know what forces MI6 or the enemies of England will use against you. I think you’d prefer not to find out.”

“But this is my home,” Q said. “Where else am I going to go? I can’t very well sleep in my office at Q-branch.”

“You’re going to need help to figure this out,” Bond said. “And by the way, I’ve stolen your laptop. It’s in the boot. I only came back because I had forgotten about it. I know you’ll need it—we’ll need it… if we are going to sort things out. And I know a place where you can stay until we get you out of this mess.”

Q glanced at his front door and reluctantly got to his feet.

~

Bond used his remote to open the garage. He pulled in and parked the Aston Martin as the door automatically slid closed behind them.

“Where are we?” Q asked.

“Somewhere you’ll be safe if anyone decides they want to put a bullet through your head,” Bond said, getting out of the car.

Q opened his door. Bond observed how he was careful not to hit the wall of the garage with it, not that its bulletproof finish could be damaged by a bit of plaster.

Bond opened the boot and pulled Q’s messenger bag out. Q met him at the rear of the car.

“I suppose a _thank you_ is in order,” Q said, taking the bag from Bond.

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve done or why MI6 has all but eliminated your existence,” Bond said, closing the boot and locking the car doors with the fob. “But you need to believe that I had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m sorry. I should know you well enough to realize that this goes beyond what you would do to prank me. You’ll help me figure this out?” Q asked.

“That’s why I stole your laptop,” Bond said, relieved that Q believed him. “I know you’d have done the same for me.”

“We’ve been through a lot of _unofficial_ missions together,” Q said with an apologetic smile. “I suppose it would be prudent for me to look at this situation as if it’s simply one more.”

“Come on,” Bond said, refusing to acknowledge that they had reached a truce. “You’re going to catch your death in that wet jumper.”

Bond led Q up three wooden steps to a doorway that opened into a dark hall. The scent of old newspapers and damp socks was one with which Bond was still unfamiliar. After all, he had chosen this flat, sight unseen, a day after M kicked him out of her house when he returned from the dead. The months that passed since that night didn’t make the flat seem any more like home, not that Bond cared. He’d be moving on soon enough. He always did.

Bond switched on a light and Q followed him up a flight of stairs.

“You’ve saved my life a hundred times,” Bond said as they clambered up the steps. “I know you want nothing but the best for MI6. You need to use your resources to figure out who turned MI6 against you so we can plan your next action.”

At the top of the stairs, Bond stood on a small all-weather rug where the WELCOME had faded to the point of being nearly unreadable.

“Should you need to re-enter, the code to the security system is simple enough,” Bond said, tapping the code into his alarm where Q could observe it.

Q nodded and hiked his messenger bag more securely onto his shoulder.

Bond opened the door and turned on the light. In his kitchen, the island countertop was covered with usual assortment of newspapers and mail that had accumulated while he was on mission. He had started to sort through it when he returned home the previous evening, but he left the job incomplete. The grocery list he had begun compiling over his morning coffee lay unfinished by the sink which contained his dirty plate from this morning’s toast and a butter-crumbed knife. A half-dozen lemons that he smuggled into Heathrow from the Middle East had rolled to the edge of the counter.

“You haven’t had much time to unpack,” Q said, nodding at the cardboard boxes that lined one wall of the room. 

“You don’t have to say that to be polite,” Bond said, resetting the alarm and dead-bolting the door behind him.

It was true. He hadn’t had much time to unpack since he retrieved the boxes M had stored for him when his old flat was sold. Still, he expected to be further along in sorting through the boxes than he was when Moneypenny visited him six months ago, before the SPECTRE ordeal.

“I wasn’t,” Q said. “It looks lived-in, I suppose… lived in by you.”

“I’m not going to ask what that’s supposed to mean,” Bond said with a snort. Bond took off his jacket and draped it over a high-backed barstool. 

Q pulled the second barstool out from the island and set his messenger bag on the seat. He undid the clasp and looked inside.

“I’m not used to having guests,” Bond said, opening the cupboard above the stove. “But I want you to make yourself at home while you’re here. You’ll probably need this.” He pulled an electric kettle from the cupboard and set it on the countertop. He could open a bottle of Scotch later, although he craved a drink, or six, now.

“You packed the kanafeh in here?” Q said in disbelief as he pulled the bag of sweets from the messenger bag.

“Damned if I was going to leave it on your desk to rot,” Bond said. He didn’t have to look at Q to know that he should scold himself for his callousness. After all, he and Q were in this together now that he had stolen Q’s laptop and decided to harbour a discredited MI6 department head. He ought to be more sensitive toward Q about his predicament.

Q had pulled his laptop from the bag and he worked to untangle the power cord.

“There’s an outlet up here,” Bond said, indicating the power strip that was hidden behind a small microwave oven. “I need to get you the wifi password. It’s written down somewhere.”

Bond watched Q plug his laptop into the outlet. Q’s fingers were shrivelled from standing in the rain. The car ride seemed to have done nothing to warm him up. His hair, normally so bouncy and fluffy that it made Bond want to touch it, stuck to his forehead in a damp clumpy mat.

“You must be freezing,” Bond said, waving a hand at Q’s bedraggled self. “While you figure out how this kettle operates, I’ll find you something dry to wear.”

“Thanks,” Q said, raising the lid of his laptop and pressing the Power button. He began to tug his wet jumper off as Bond left the kitchen.

In the bedroom, Bond rummaged through his dresser drawers, looking for something that would fit Q’s skinny frame, something warm enough to make him stop shivering. He settled on a pair of softly worn navy blue track pants and a white T-shirt that was still in its wrapper. His fingers bit through the plastic and he pulled the shirt free. In his wardrobe, he found a light grey hoodie that would fit Q although Q would certainly disapprove of its boring colour.

From his bedside cabinet drawer, Bond pulled a scrap of paper with his wifi password written on it. When he returned to the kitchen, Q had added water to the kettle and turned it on to boil. His damp shirt clung to his chest and his tie had been loosened.

“Here’s something dry for you to wear,” Bond said, passing the clothes to Q.

“Thanks,” Q said. “I’ll just umm….”

“Go ahead,” Bond said. “The bathroom is the first door on the right.

“I’ll try to find something for us to eat, although I haven’t had time to shop since I got back,” Bond said.

“Tea is fine, if you have any,” Q said.

“I’m afraid all I have is some Barry’s,” Bond said, finding the red box in a kitchen drawer. “We’ll get you some proper Earl Grey when I make a grocery run.”

“Thanks Bond,” Q said. “I appreciate how you’re trying to make me feel better about all of this. Your efforts are actually working.”

Bond tended to agree. In fact, Q was handling the situation rather well. Even in the most traumatic circumstances like an agent’s kidnapping or life-threatening injury, Q could be relied upon to remain cool and level-headed. He was pleased that Q’s own personal drama today wasn’t too much for him to handle. He’d need Q to be at the top of his game to figure out what had happened to his identity at MI6 and beyond.

“If you want a hot shower, it may warm you up,” Bond said as Q headed for the bathroom. “The tea will keep. There are fresh towels in the cabinet next to the sink. Take whatever you need.”

Bond hoped that Q would feel at home in his flat. There was nothing worse than having a houseguest who needed to be coddled. The more polite ones always asked where they could find things, a cheese grater, a corkscrew, a coaster. Frankly, it was a pain in the arse. It was so much easier for a guest to settle in and feel comfortable enough to simply look until they found what they needed. It’s not like Bond had anything to hide among his meagre possessions. He certainly didn’t have anything to hide from Q.

When the kettle sounded its whistle, Bond tossed a teabag into a chipped blue mug and poured steaming water over it. He could hear the shower running in the bathroom. He hoped the shower would melt some of the inevitable stress off Q so he could start his investigation refreshed. Bond was sure Q would want to get to work right away—Bond certainly would, if he were in Q’s situation.

He checked his mobile and replied to only one of Moneypenny’s numerous concerned texts. _Q safe. See you tomorrow._ He hoped it would put her mind at ease, but his mobile rang the moment Moneypenny received his message.

“Is he with you?” Moneypenny asked.

“You know better than to ask that,” Bond said.

“Can I speak to him?” Moneypenny asked.

“He’s in the shower.” Bond said. 

“So help me, if anything happens to him,” Moneypenny said. “Who could have done this?”

“I don’t know, but it seems that whoever is responsible for his MI6 issue also changed the locks on his door at home,” Bond said.

“You must be joking,” Moneypenny said.

“I’m afraid not,” Bond said. “Is there any news from Mallory?”

“He’s called a meeting for 8:00 AM tomorrow,” Moneypenny said. “I’m sure you’ll want to be there.”

“Of course,” Bond said. “I’ll see you then.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of him, James,” Moneypenny said. “The poor poppet, he must be so distraught.”

“He’s holding up surprisingly well,” Bond said.

“Well thank heavens you’re there for him,” Moneypenny said. “Give him my love, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bond pocketed the mobile and tucked the paper with the wifi password under the corner of Q’s laptop. He could do with a hot shower himself when Q was finished. He was exhausted from his late night flight from Damascus as well as the stress of Q’s predicament. Although he had the next two weeks off from active MI6 duty, a requirement for all agents after action, Q’s situation would mean that Bond had little time to relax.

The water stopped running before Bond could find anything suitable that might pass for a meal. He supposed they could order take-away tonight and he could make a run to the grocer tomorrow.

Bond pulled out a barstool and sat at the island. He had sorted through a week’s worth of mail, tossing most of it into the bin, when Q emerged barefoot from the bathroom, wearing the clothing Bond had loaned him. His shower-damp hair stuck up at all angles, making him look deliciously shaggable, if the circumstances were different.

“Comfortable?” Bond asked.

“Yes, thanks,” Q said. “Feeling much better.”

“That’s good to hear,” Bond said. “I’m going to have a shower and try to shake off some of the cobwebs from not getting enough sleep last night. Take-away menus are in the bottom drawer if you want to look for something for dinner.”

“All right,” Q said with a nod. “I can do that.”

“And the wifi password is next to your laptop,” Bond said.

“Thanks,” Q said lifting the paper from where Bond had left it for him. “I’m going to see what information I can retrieve. I hope there’s a clue somewhere as to why I’ve been effectively terminated.”

“And we need to figure out how I can best approach Mallory about your situation,” Bond said. “Miss Moneypenny called to give you her regards. I’ll go into the office to see M tomorrow, but it probably won’t be wise to tell him that you’re staying here.”

Q nodded and entered the wifi password on his keyboard.

“And I mean it,” Bond said before he left the room. “Make yourself at home. Your tea is on the counter.”

Bond removed his tie as he walked to the bedroom. His suitcase from his Middle East mission still sat packed on the floor. He scrubbed his hands across his face, thinking of the dirty laundry he had stuffed inside before he hastily departed Syria. He’d add a trip to the dry cleaners to his list of things to do, along with the grocery run tomorrow. Still, his top priority was to meet with Mallory so he could get a sense of what was going on with Q.

For MI6 to cut a devoted department head like Q from their ranks was unprecedented. Bond vowed he would find out why, even if there was little hope of the decision being overturned.

Bond removed his shoulder holster and left his pistol on the bed.

Unless Q had done something bordering on treason, it seemed implausible that MI6 would have disposed of a talented Quartermaster. If they had eliminated the Quartermaster position, in a situation like last years’ unsuccessful coup to shut down the double-oh program, Q would have been notified and offered another position at MI6, Bond was sure of it. Q simply knew too much for MI6 to wash their hands of him.

This went deeper than MI6 alone. It was most concerning that Q’s personal life had been affected as well as his professional life. Q’s unusable Oyster card and changed locks on his house hardly seemed the work of an organization that was committed to keeping people safe from harm.

Bond stripped to his boxers and left his clothing in a heap beside his suitcase.

If Mallory could provide any insight, Bond would have to wait until tomorrow. Then, he would know what Q was up against.

A haze from Q’s shower fogged the bathroom mirror. Bond kicked off his boxers and tossed them into the hamper. He noted that Q had left his clothes draped over the heated towel rack where they could dry. If Q wanted to add them to the laundry tomorrow, he’d be welcome to do so. Bond had already decided that Q could do what suited him during his stay. Fighting over the remote control wouldn’t be conducive to solving Q’s dilemma. Bond wasn’t about to make a fuss over domestic issues that might arise from them sharing a space together. Besides, Q wouldn’t be here for very long.

Bond turned on the shower and stepped inside.

He let the hot water run over his face, washing away the cares of the day and reviving him to a more wakeful state. It would be a couple more days until his internal clock recovered from the jet lag suffered during his most recent mission. He grabbed the shampoo and worked it through his short hair, giving it a light scrub with his fingers.

He thought about Q, sitting in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, all warm and cosy.

Bond’s hands worked up a lather with the bar of soap. He groaned when he realized that Q had likely used the same bar when he had showered. His thoughts drifted to Q, naked in his bathroom. Q, massaging the soap over his skinny body. He wondered if Q’s chest was decorated with dark hair, like that on his head, or if he was as smooth as a nubile bedslave.

Bond stifled a groan at the thought.

Bond pondered whether Q had a dalliance with his right hand while he was in the shower, but he decided that Q handled stress with too much economy of emotion to let the human need for release sway him from his resolve.

Still, thinking of Q’s damp spiky hair and his pretty arse that was warmed by Bond’s own clothes sent his mind straight to the luxury suite of any five-star hotel on the planet. He didn’t care which, as long as it was far from MI6.

It had been a while since Bond slept with anyone on a mission. It wasn’t that the opportunity didn’t present itself. It often did. However, sex was unnecessary for the recent missions he had accepted. There were only arms traffickers to interrogate, enemies of Queen and Country to dispatch, but no lonely wives to seduce for vital information.

It had been months since he and Madeleine had parted ways. They had fun while they were together, but he should have known it wouldn’t last. It had been nearly perfect, until her ex invited her back to Switzerland and she left with the promise of a research position at the university and a warm bed to come home to at night. His promises outweighed anything Bond could give her. As always, Bond was heartened that he managed to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of his time with a female companion, despite the sad ending.

That was how it went with Bond. Nothing ever lasted—not the way it always did at the end of a film romance. Those stories were for other people, not Bond.

Bond rinsed the soap from his body, his arms, his chest, his legs. Bond’s hand lingered on his cock, realizing that the thoughts of a naked Quartermaster had distracted him again. He hoped he could control himself with Q staying in his flat. He needed to resist the temptation. Q was a colleague in distress. Flirting with Q was always fun at work and Q accepted it in good humour, often giving back as good as he got. But he would be furious if Bond tried to seduce him when he was at his most vulnerable. And Bond would be furious with himself for trying it.

Bond turned the faucet until the water ran icy cold.

~

When he finished rinsing off, Bond grabbed a fresh towel from the cupboard. As he towelled himself dry, he hoped that Q had made some progress with the laptop. Any information he gleaned would bring them closer to learning the truth of why Q was burned by MI6.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom. The flat was eerily silent, considering Q was in the kitchen. Bond wasn’t one to surrender to paranoia, but a horrible thought ran through his head. What if an enemy operative had followed him and Q to his flat?

Any enemy of the British government might want to recruit Q to serve their cause. If Q didn’t go willingly with his captors, they might have unpleasant ways to persuade Q to join them.

What if they got past Bond’s alarm? Bond was certain he remembered to set it. But what if Q was gone? What if he left of his own accord? The re-entry from a mission always made Bond more paranoid than strictly necessary, but he still acted on his instincts.

“Q?” Bond called.

No response came from the kitchen.

Bond ducked into the bedroom and retrieved his gun. Wearing only a towel, he crept down the hallway. With his back flat against the wall to shield his presence, he called into the unusually silent kitchen.

“Q?”

Bracing himself for the worst, Bond peered around the corner. A trickle of condensed water ran down his back and slipped into his towel. Bond didn’t let it distract him.

Q’s laptop was still perched on the countertop. The blue glow from the screen reflected off the living room window. A toolbar indicated that a scan was running.

A glance at the door confirmed to Bond that it was still locked and bolted from the inside.

Bond took two steps toward the kitchen and from the corner of the room, a movement caught his eye.

“Q?” Bond asked with a relieved sigh.

He found Q sitting in a foetal position on the kitchen floor.

“Q,” Bond said, lowering his weapon. “I worried the unthinkable happened to you.”

“I’d say this whole situation is pretty unthinkable,” Q said sadly when he looked up at Bond.

It was then that Bond noticed the blood.

“What happened?” Bond asked, setting his weapon on the counter. He dropped to the floor, where Q cradled his bloody hand.

“What have you done?” Bond asked, hoping that Q hadn’t intentionally harmed himself.

Q clasped his hands closer to his body. His glasses were fogged.

“I was slicing a lemon, hoping to improve my tea,” Q said.

Bond knelt in front of Q and slid a hand under both of Q’s hands as if he could contain the injury as well as Q’s mental state. There was so much blood. Bond hoped that Q didn’t need stitches. He reached up to the counter and grabbed a tea towel.

“You told me to make myself at home,” Q said. “I should have known that double-ohs keep their kitchen knives quite sharp.”

Bond gave Q a weak smile.

“Let’s have a look,” Bond said, arranging the tea towel under Q’s hands. “I want to see how badly you’re hurt.” With his free hand, he coaxed Q’s fingers into loosening their grip. Crimson droplets of blood seeped from Q’s left index finger. It was a clean cut at least, without any ragged edges. There was something to be said for keeping one’s knives sharp.

Bond gently wiped the wound clean with the tea towel. With most of the blood absorbed, it didn’t look too bad. Bond was thankful that he didn’t slice through an artery. He imagined Q might be relieved to see how minor his injury was when compared to all he had been through this day. But instead of Q being relieved, tears leaked from his eyes.

“What have I done to make them do this to me?” Q asked, the sobs wracking his upper body.

Bond sighed. Treating Q’s injured hand was going to be more complicated than he thought.

“You’ve done nothing. We’ll get this sorted out,” Bond said softly. He squeezed the tea towel around Q’s injured hand, maintaining the pressure while he lowered himself to the floor. Carefully, he scooted over so his bare back rested against the dishwasher as he sat beside Q. He wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders, letting him know it was all right to feel this way. Q could let it all out, if he needed to. Bond would be here for him. He remembered sitting in a similar position, comforting Vesper in a hotel shower a thousand lifetimes ago. The gravity of the situation wasn’t so different from this one with Q.

Without giving it another thought, Bond unwrapped Q’s injured finger and took it into his mouth. Q inhaled sharply.

Bond closed his eyes, not wanting to give too much away of what he was feeling for Q at that moment. The sympathy he felt for him, the empathy that he wanted so badly to exhibit, but hardly dared, and the genuine affection for Q that fuelled it all.

Q’s skin tasted like spiced tea, mixed with the subtle tang of blood. Bond imagined that perhaps his willingness to get Q’s blood in his mouth would convince Q that he was still trusted a great deal—by Bond, if not by MI6. Indeed, Bond would trust Q with his life. He remained certain that Q hadn’t done anything to deserve the way he was treated by those responsible for his demise as Quartermaster.

“My cats,” Q said, his voice breaking.

Bond had forgotten about Q’s cats during the crisis. He knew how utterly devoted Q was to them.

“I’m sorry,” Bond whispered against Q’s fingers.

“Now that I’ve had time to think, I can’t believe I left them behind,” Q said, wiping his nose with the back of his uninjured hand. “I can deal with everything I had to leave, but….” 

“You’re under a lot of stress. You weren’t thinking straight when I found you on your doorstep,” Bond said, still holding Q’s injured hand.

“Petting an animal is supposed to be a great stress reliever,” Q said hopefully. 

Bond wanted to laugh. The cats... they were the only family Q had, besides Q’s sister in Paris. Maybe if Bond could get the cats out of the flat, Emily would adopt them—at least for the time being. Bond was not fond of cats and couldn’t imagine harbouring them in his small flat. He pressed a light kiss to Q’s finger and released his hold on Q’s hand. 

“Q,” Bond said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll go to Putney and break your cats out.”

Q drew back from Bond’s embrace. He looked as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard.

“You don’t have to,” Q said. “In fact, that’s insane. We’ll be caught. Whoever is responsible for this may try to torture me for information. I’m not a very good fighter and I’m not fond of physical pain.”

Bond clasped his hand to Q’s shoulder.

“That’s why you can’t come with me,” Bond said.

“But I must go,” Q said. “The cats don’t know you—not that they’re aggressive or anything, but what if you can’t catch them? What if you accidentally let them outside? They’ve never been outdoors before. Too dangerous on my street. They wouldn’t know how to defend themselves if they got away from you, and—”

“Q,” Bond said.

Their lips were only inches apart and it would have been so easy for Bond to lean forward and kiss Q to get him to stop talking.

Q’s eyes flickered over his mouth. “Yes?” Q said.

Bond reined in his desire. Besides, he was quite amused at how Q seemed to forget his bigger problems when talking about the safety of his cats. Bond hoped that the creatures were still inside Q’s house and hadn’t been dispatched by Q’s unidentified enemy.

“First, I’m going to find a bandage and some antibiotic ointment for your finger,” Bond said. “Then, you’re going to choose some take-away.”

“Then, what?” Q asked.

“Then, I’m leaving to get the cats and I’ll pick up the take-away on my way back home,” Bond said.

“That would be amazing, and so very appreciated,” Q said. “It’s really not necessary. It’s too much. But I’ve been thinking that if I wasn’t worried about the cats being killed or abused or taken to the pound even….” Q exhaled long and hard. “I think I’ll be able to focus on whatever information I can get off the laptop. I’m sure it seems utterly ridiculous to you.”

“No, not ridiculous at all,” Bond said. He realized how much he truly wanted to make Q happy, to make him forget some of the horrors that went on at MI6 today. “No more ridiculous than the way I’m sitting half-naked on the floor with you.”

“You’re more like three-quarters naked,” Q said.

“Your prowess for mathematics is wasted on calculating percentages of nakedness,” Bond said.

With that, Bond left the tea towel wrapped around Q’s hand and got to his feet. He rose carefully to keep his bath towel from losing its battle with gravity. He offered Q an outstretched hand and Q accepted it with his good one. They stood inches apart in the kitchen for a moment, too close to be friends, too distant to be lovers. Q’s green eyes blinked at Bond from behind smudged glasses.

It was Q who broke the tension by looking over Bond’s shoulder at his laptop. “Ahh, my program has finished scanning,” he said. “Let me see if I can learn anything from the data.”

“And while you have your laptop running, see if you can get this working again,” Bond said. He reached into a kitchen drawer and dug through a collection of half-charged batteries, mechanical pencils, and broken calculators. Eventually, he pulled out an earpiece he had neglected to return to Q-branch after a long-forgotten mission.

“Bond,” Q said. “You fail to return my equipment just to drive me crazy. Don’t you?”

Bond smirked as Q took the earpiece from him.

“It must have slipped my mind to return it to my Quartermaster,” Bond said.

“Well, he appreciates getting it back now. He’ll be sure to return it to its original working condition,” Q said.

“For the sake of the cats,” Bond said.

“Especially because of the cats,” Q said.

While Q tinkered with the communications device, Bond went to his bedroom and changed into a set of tactical clothing: black trousers, a black turtleneck that could be pulled up to cover his face, black boots, a watch cap, and of course, his shoulder holster. He packed a set of lock picks and night-vision goggles into an empty mountaineering rucksack.

Bond felt much better since Q seemed to get himself together after his momentary lapse into despair. He knew that Q was as tough as they came when manning comms or giving the order to dispatch an enemy. He could handle whatever was thrown his way and Bond was willing to help him get back some of the spirit he had lost in the past day.

When Bond returned to the kitchen, Q handed him the earpiece.

“I found some tools in your drawer of miscellaneous junk. This seems to be in perfect working order now,” he said. “And I ran some tests on my machine. It’s strange, nearly everything is intact as it should be, although I don’t dare check my bank account on any device. I had locked down my workstation before we went to lunch, but I discovered some unusual tracking activity from a program that I didn’t install. I disabled it, and I’m analysing its source now. In the meantime, let’s test our comm link.”

Bond inserted the earpiece and Q’s fingers skated over the keyboard as he made adjustments to the controls. Finally, he spoke into the microphone on his laptop.

“Testing, one, two, three,” Q said.

“Loud and clear, Quartermaster,” Bond said, assuring him that they would remain in close communication for the duration of this mission to rescue Q’s cats.

Bond left with the rucksack, with his earpiece in place, and with explicit orders from Q to retrieve a Carbonara take-away from Pizza Express on his way home.

It was good to have Q smiling again, with a bandage wrapped around his finger that told him that someone cared, even if MI6 didn’t.

~

After spending nearly an hour in traffic, Bond arrived at the house on Putney Heath Lane. He discretely parked the Aston Martin a few blocks away in the parking lot of the Putney High School, where classes were not in session. Shouldering the rucksack, Bond walked the distance to Q’s house, doubling back through the adjacent streets, making certain he wasn’t being followed. Darkness fell, but at least it had stopped raining.

“I’m going to try to get in the back way,” Bond said.

“If you have to break a window, I’ll understand,” Q said over the comm.

Bond rolled his eyes. He worried that Q might never see the inside of his home again, but apparently Q was more concerned with broken glass. Bond attributed it to the stress Q was under. He could try to remain his calm and cool self, but underneath it all, something had to give. Perhaps if the cats were safe, Q could function more efficiently and they could get to the bottom of what had happened at MI6.

The centre of Q’s block contained an expanse of terraces divided by neat fences that separated each one from its neighbour’s. It was all too easy to find Q’s house, the only one whose lights did not illuminate the inside of the home. While other families watched the telly and children did their homework in the surrounding homes, Q’s house sat silent and dark. No doubt the cats were wondering when they were going to be fed.

Under the cover of darkness, Bond jumped the fence and made his way through Q’s terrace, the wet grass squishing under his boots.

Q’s outdoor deck stood a few feet off the ground. Bond crouched low and dug the night-vision goggles and the lock picks from the rucksack. He shoved the picks into his pocket and donned the eyewear. When they were in place, Bond leapt over the deck’s railing, landing with a thud on the wooden floor.

“Bond?” Q asked over the comm. “Are you there? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Bond whispered. “I’m at your back door.”

Somewhere, a dog barked.

Bond paused for a moment and listened to Q’s breathing until he was certain no one else heard his boots hitting the deck. When all was quiet, he crept past Q’s outdoor furniture. Bond imagined happier days when Q would step out onto the deck to sit and enjoy his first cup of Earl Grey before the city was awake. Lush vegetation surrounded the small table and pair of chairs. Bond wondered if Q ever had company to sit in the second chair, an overnight guest, perhaps, to share his morning tea. Q’s private life was a mystery to Bond. Fortunately, Q’s secluded retreat allowed Bond to remain undetected by surveillance or curious neighbours.

Across the deck, a sliding glass door offered an entry point to Q’s kitchen. Bond took the picks out of his pocket and went to work. With a few twists of metal, he was in.

He stepped onto the floor which was comprised of expensive Italian tiles arranged in an art deco pattern.

“Q, I’m standing in your kitchen,” Bond said. “You’re a MI6 department head, for heaven’s sake. You should definitely have better security than this.”

“You forget, Bond,” Q said. “Whoever was responsible for my ousting must have changed my locks. I suppose they disabled the alarm system too.”

“It would appear so,” Bond said, examining the remains of the alarm system that had been torn from the wall. “I should have known you were smart enough to not rely on a key alone.” It was easy to lose focus on Q’s bigger problem when Bond was focused on whether Q’s cats were still alive.

Still, Bond promised himself that even if they never got this problem straightened out, he would make sure Q was safe from those who would do him harm, whether he was reinstated as Quartermaster of MI6 or whether he had to settle for a job as a cashier at Tesco’s.

A single thump disturbed Bond from his reverie.

He paused and listened. From out of the darkness, a cat appeared and twined around Bond’s ankles. Bond breathed a sigh of relief. At least one cat was here, and quite alive.

“I think I’ve just met one of your furry little friends,” Bond said as he watched the green image of the cat, its eyes iridescent through the night-vision goggles.

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” Q said. “Which one is it?”

The cat let out a soft mewl and got onto its hind legs, stretching so its front paws touched Bond’s knee.

“How on Earth should I know?” Bond said. “A cat is a cat.”

“It’s probably Copernicus,” Q said. Bond could tell that Q was hiding his exasperation. “He’s very friendly.”

“Well, this one’s friendly all right,” Bond said.

“He’s not a good deterrent to a burglar. Especially when you’re there as a cat burglar,” Q said, with a laugh. “Get it? A cat burglar?”

Bond listened to Q giggling at his own joke. He smiled when he remembered how much he liked having Q on comms when he was on a mission. Not only was Q effective, but he kept Bond in a positive state of mind. When Q stopped laughing, Bond said, “I hope the other cat turns up soon.”

“I’m sure he will. Galileo is frisky and playful,” Q said, “Copernicus is older and sleeps most of the day, preferably in a warm lap.”

Bond knew the feeling. Some days he felt like an old cat, wanting to stretch out before curling up to sleep for the day. He supposed it was his age telling him that it was time to slow down. He pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t a realistic option for a double-oh agent. 

“You’ll need to get their travel carriers. They’re upstairs,” Q said. “Can you see without turning the lights on?”

“I can,” Bond said. “But let me clear the house first to make sure no one is lying in wait for you.”

Q’s breath quickened through the comm link.

Bond moved through the kitchen with his gun drawn, mindful of Copernicus and the hiding Galileo. It wouldn’t bode well if he shot a cat dead while he was trying to help Q.

Bond was surprised that Q’s kitchen was so strikingly different than his own. White cabinetry with glass doors displayed Q’s fine china. The light from the night-vision goggles reflected off stainless steel appliances. There were no dishes in the sink, nor was there a pile of mail cluttered on the granite countertops or on the handsome farm table.

“The kitchen is clear,” Bond said. “On to the next room.”

“There’s a bathroom on your left as you leave the kitchen,” Q said.

“Got it,” Bond said, checking the tiny room that contained only a toilet and a sink. Half the room accommodated what was presumably the cats’ litterbox. The soles of Bond’s boots crunched in the litter that the cats had shovelled onto the floor.

“The cats found their litterbox,” Bond said, noting their woefully empty food dish. At least there was some hope that empty-stomached creatures wouldn’t vomit all over the interior of the Aston Martin.

“We’ll need to get some litter,” Q said. “You’ll never be able to carry everything out of my house in your rucksack.”

“I’ll get what I can,” Bond said, moving on to the living room. “We’ll have to make do with what I can get today.”

“That’s fine,” Q said. “And Bond, I’ll be so pleased to have my cats, if nothing else.”

Bond shook his head. He could never understand why people were so obsessed with their pets. He certainly found them useless, but alas, if Q wanted them back so badly, he’d see to it that he helped to reunite Q with them.

Bond left the bathroom and headed into the living room, which was connected to the kitchen in an open concept design that was popular in gentrified buildings such as the ones in Q’s neighbourhood. Although he wore night-vision goggles, Bond was taken aback by the interior décor of Q’s home. He found it exceedingly minimalist, but tastefully so. For as messy as Q kept his workstation and office at MI6, he kept his home as neat. No clutter filled the corners of the rooms. There were no gadget guts strewn on any countertop, no half-completed projects awaiting adjustment, and no tools of any kind visible to Bond.

Instead, a pure white sofa sat adorned with a cashmere throw on one side of the room with two simple black leather hassocks arranged across from it. On one long wall behind the sofa, a collection of photographs were displayed in matching frames. On the opposite wall, a flat screen television was hung above a small black cabinet that presumably contained electronics. The walls of the room were painted a stark flat white. Each piece of furniture and accent reminded Bond of an architectural design book, one that featured an eclectic mixture of shiny chrome with antique white and black. Underfoot, a highly polished hardwood floor made every strand of shed cat fur stand out in high detail through Bond’s night-vision goggles.

“Your living room is clear,” Bond said.

“Upstairs, then,” Q said. “I hope you can find Galileo.”

“Found him,” Bond said as the second cat noisily bounded down the steps.

Q’s voice broke on his next transmission over the comm link. “I’m so pleased with you right now,” he said. “Well done, Bond.”

“I’ll try to keep them in sight so I can get them into their carriers,” Bond said. “I’m at the top of the stairs now.”

Holding the pistol steadily in front of him, Bond checked the upper level of Q’s house. Three walls of the office were lined with built-in bookcases. A white drafting desk stood in the centre of the room, Q’s tablet neatly resting beside a marble box that served as a pen holder.

“I’ll grab your tablet, if you’d like,” Bond said, no longer bothering to be quiet. If anyone were lying in wait for Q, they would have made their presence known by now.

“If there’s room for it,” Q said.

“It’s a bloody big rucksack, Q,” Bond said. “That’s why I brought it.”

Bond picked up the tablet and wandered down the hall to Q’s bedroom. Before he reached the bedroom door, he found the second bathroom. He swept inside and checked for an intruder, but there was nothing that caught his attention, besides the walk-in shower. Bond stared through the clear glass door and recounted some of the same lustful thoughts he had earlier about Q.

This was where Q got naked.

Bond bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself focussed.

“Upstairs bathroom is clear,” Bond said.

“There’s a closet across from the bathroom door,” Q said. “You’ll find the cat’s carriers in there.”

Bond slid the door open and looked for the carriers. Q seemed fond of white linens and towels, Bond thought, as he perused the shelves.

“They’re on the floor, far over to the left,” Q said.

“Got them,” Bond said. “Let me take care of the bedroom first before I try to herd the cats into these.”

Q’s bedroom was filled with the aroma of Q, his shampoo, his tea, the faint scent of his come. A shiver went down Bond’s spine.

The room was decorated in the same minimal style as the rest of the house. A four poster bed covered in a plush white duvet stood in the centre of the room. Bond swung open the wardrobe door, making one final exploration of the room before he could confirm that the house was empty.

“All clear, Q,” Bond announced. “There’s no one here.”

Q let out an audible sigh of relief.

“I’m turning on the lights and getting to work,” Bond said.

“Just get whatever you can,” Q said. “And the cats, of course.”

Returning his gun to its holster, Bond flipped on the lights. The effect of Q’s interior design was magnified by the lighting. In some ways, it was more posh than the most lavish hotel room, yet the simple lines and sparse details beckoned for Bond to collapse into a comfortable chair, put his feet up and spend the next few hours lazing with a good book. At once, Bond could see why Q called this place his home.

With no time to spare, Bond unshouldered the rucksack and set about shoving in as many hideous jumpers and ugly trousers as he could. When he was sure he had several changes of clothing for Q, he went to the dresser, a polished oak monstrosity with three enormous drawers opened with antique brass handles.

In the top drawer, Bond grabbed an armful of while t-shirts. In the middle, he took multiple pairs of colourful boxers. The bottom drawer contained socks, some striped brightly, others solid in tones of red grape, neon yellow, and lime green. The careful organization of the drawers made Bond laugh. Clearly Q had put a lot of thought into this top, middle, bottom, drawer plan. Bond could barely unpack his dry-cleaning, let alone keep it organized.

Satisfied that he got as much of Q’s clothing as he could, Bond shoved the tablet into the top pocket of the rucksack and dragged it into the bathroom. He filled the remaining space with Q’s toiletries, his razor, and as many hair products as he could manage. He felt sure that Q would appreciate the effort. The cats looked on with classic feline curiosity.

When the rucksack was full to bursting, Bond hauled it to the upstairs landing and brought the cat carriers from the closet. The cats were having none of it, so they promptly fled down the stairs, their curiosity satisfied for the moment.

Bond shoved his arms through the straps of the rucksack, took a carrier in each hand, and followed the felines downstairs. Leaving the rucksack by the kitchen door, he herded the cats into the bathroom by waving the empty cat carriers at them and taunting them with threats of a trip to the veterinarian. The life of a MI6 agent had prepared him for all manner of dangerous actions in the field, but none that compared to getting Q’s cats into their carriers.

He shut the bathroom door, trapping himself and the cats in the tiny room. He tried to keep the ruckus to a minimum so as not to alarm Q through his earpiece, but it was futile. 

“Bond, are you all right?” Q asked when the howling subsided.

“I will be in a minute,” Bond said as he hovered over a fluffy orange cat, eventually frightening it into running into the carrier.

“There may be some cat litter in the cabinet under the sink,” Q said. “They’ll need to use something as a litter tray while they’re at your flat.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Bond said, folding over the top flap of the bag of cat litter and pushing it through the door of the carrier to the chagrin of its feline occupant. He took care to latch the door shut, lest his charge escape.

“And food,” Q reminded Bond.

“Food,” Bond repeated with a sigh.

He found a full bag of kibble beneath the sink and used it to lure the second cat, a fuzzy beast with dark tiger stripes, into his carrier.

“I’ve got them,” Bond said finally, exhausted from his adventure in cat wrangling.

“You’ve probably got everything you can carry in one trip,” Q said.

Bond agreed. He set the cat carriers beside the rucksack by the kitchen door and listened to the cats’ pitiful meows.

Taking one last look through Q’s house, he lamented that Q might never see his home again. There was something strikingly comfortable about the house. The gentle scent of tea and spice wafted through each room. Bond decided that the house reminded him of Q himself, with the rich textured fabrics that begged to be touched, the calming atmosphere that invited exploration. In the short time that Q lived there, he had made it his own, a peaceful place where he could escape from the pressures of MI6.

While the cats pleaded to be released, Bond had a rush of sentimentality that urged him to bring a few more of Q’s belongings to his flat for him. He rushed to Q’s bedroom and tore the white duvet from the bed. Taking the stairs two at a time on the descent, Bond noticed the pictures Q had framed above his sofa. Certainly they meant something to Q.

Bond spread the duvet out, and one by one, he swept the photographs into the centre of the duvet. He then took all four corners together and wrapped it into a bundle that he was sure he could carry under his arm.

The cats continued to sing their angry song.

Bond hauled the rucksack onto his back. With the duvet under an arm, he took the cat carriers outside to the back deck. The weight was strangely heavy and awkward, but Bond reckoned he had enough stamina to get his parcels back to the Aston Martin he had left in the parking lot a half mile away.

He locked Q’s kitchen door behind him and left the place that Q called home, sad that he would not be returning.

“I’m on my way back to the car,” Bond said.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Q said.

The cats mewled their disapproval. Bond couldn’t blame them for not wanting to leave their home. He took the stairs from Q’s terrace, cursing that he hadn’t seen them when he first arrived. In the dark, he trudged across the wet grass and arrived at the border of the property.

“Hey, you!” someone shouted as Bond stepped from Q’s terrace onto the pavement.

“It looks like we may have trouble,” Bond said.

“Do what you need to do, Bond,” Q said. “But I don’t want you to kill anyone over a rucksack full of jumpers.”

“Really?” Bond asked. “To think that I took such care to pack your favourites.”

Bond set the cats down on the pavement. The duvet fell out of Bond’s grasp and settled on top of one of the carriers.

“Stop right there!” the man shouted.

“I think one of your neighbours has an aversion to pussy,” Bond said. He could almost hear Q rolling his eyes over the comm link.

The man got out his mobile. Bond gave him the benefit of doubt, thinking he might be a nosy neighbour intent on calling the police. Still, he approached him cautiously, ever-conscious that it would only take him a split second to draw his gun.

“No, it’s not him,” the man said into the mobile.

“Looking for someone?” Bond said.

“Mind your own business,” the man said, turning away.

Bond weighed the pros and cons of getting into an altercation with a neighbour and decided against it. Besides, he had to get the cats to Q, but something about the man sparked Bond’s interest.

“What did you mean when you said _it’s not him?”_ Bond asked.

“I told you to mind your own business,” the man said.

“Who were you speaking to?” Bond asked.

Without warning, the man took a swing at Bond. Bond blocked it easily, knocking the man’s mobile out of his hand. It fell to the ground as Bond twisted the thug’s arm around his back.

“I asked who you were speaking to,” Bond said, wrenching the man’s arm.

“I don’t know the bloke’s name, I’m just supposed to call him if the owner of the house tries to break in,” the man said through gritted teeth.

With one hand, Bond patted the man down, searching for a weapon or more clues about his identity or the identity of whoever he worked for. There was nothing, except the broken mobile lying on the pavement.

“They’re looking for me, aren’t they?” Q whispered through the comm link.

The squeal of tyres rounding the corner pierced the night. A black sedan pulled up beside them and another thug got out of the car. Bond ducked the first punch, but he wasn’t so lucky with the second. Bond landed a few punches of his own, but he was torn between pursuing the altercation with the men and getting the cats safely back to Q.

“Let’s go,” the owner of the broken mobile shouted as he scrambled into the car.

Bond didn’t give chase. These ordinary thugs wouldn’t have been provided with any valid contact information that would lead to whoever was behind Q’s removal from MI6. There was a good chance that they left Bond with the best information he could hope to have pried from them.

“What’s happening?” Q asked through the comm.

Bond picked up the broken pieces of the mobile.

“I’m bringing you a present,” Bond said.

He shoved pieces of the mobile into his pocket, sure that Q could scour it for information when he got home.

Bond returned to where the cats mewled angrily in their carriers. Checking both ways on the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed, Bond made his way back to the high school parking lot.

When Bond reached the Aston Martin, he arranged the carriers awkwardly in the passenger’s side of the car, one on the floor and the other on the seat. He hoped the cats didn’t mind too much, but they certainly seemed to, as they both increased their efforts to be freed, their little claws raking at the metal bars of their carrier doors.

The duvet served as padding to keep the cats from being jostled around. Bond hoped that the picture frames didn’t get damaged in his escape from Putney Heath Lane. He dropped the rucksack into the boot and pounded on it until it closed. One didn’t simply lash a bungee cord around their parcels that wouldn’t fit in the boot of their Aston Martin.

“The cats are safe and you’re on your way home,” Q said knowingly, when the engine roared to life.

“But first, pizza,” Bond said, relieved that he had done the best he could for Q.

“And, while you’re there, get an order of those dough balls with the garlic butter dipping sauce,” Q said. “I love those.”

“Whatever your heart desires, Q,” Bond said. “I’ll see you soon.”

~


	3. Chapter 3

“And you just left them in the car while you picked up the take-away?” Q asked. He petted the fluffy orange cat that purred contentedly in his lap—Copernicus, as Bond had learned, when Q introduced them formally, after letting the cat out of his carrier.

Bond leaned over the coffee table to tear a slice of Carbonara pizza from the piping hot pie. “Did you expect me to take them into Pizza Express with me?” he asked.

“I suppose not,” Q said.

“I did worry that the car would smell of cat vomit if they had an accident,” Bond said.

“It’s bad enough that the leather will reek of pizza for a week,” Q said.

“And garlic,” Bond reminded him, before taking a bite.

“A bit of cat vomit may have dissipated faster. Sorry, next time, _you_ can choose the take-away,” Q said as he dipped a round ball of baked dough into the melted garlic butter.

Q had taken the liberty of making a fire in Bond’s fireplace. The tiger-striped cat named Galileo sat on the rug in front of the hearth. Bond couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to make a fire, but Q had figured out the quirks of the flue and found the small stack of wood that Bond’s landlord had left as a sort of housewarming gift when Bond first moved in. The fire added some charm to the desolate flat that Bond had barely begun to unpack and call home. Flickers of firelight reflected off the French doors and banished the evening chill from the flat’s plastered walls.

The telly droned in the background as the BBC news reported yet another suicide bombing with twenty dead and ISIS taking responsibility. The news didn’t mention a MI6 department head that had been mysteriously abandoned by his organization earlier today, thank goodness. The less attention that was brought to Q’s situation, the safer he would be. Bond hoped Q could get information off the shattered mobile he brought him. And he looked forward to getting some answers from M in the morning.

“What happened to your hand?” Q asked, from where he sat at one end of Bond’s sofa.

Bond examined his bloody knuckle. “I must have split it when I scuffled with the blokes who were watching your house,” he said.

“Such a brute,” Q said, petting his cat gently. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill them when you discovered they weren’t going to give you any solid information.”

“Please, Q,” Bond said, raising his palm. “Not in front of the cats.”

Q laughed and passed Bond a napkin to wipe the blood from his hand. “When I first noticed it, I thought it was pizza sauce,” he said.

“Apparently not,” Bond said sucking his knuckle into his mouth.

“That’s a filthy habit, you know,” Q said.

“What’s that?” Bond asked.

“Your vampirish tendency to suck blood whenever you see it,” Q said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, that?” Bond said, fighting back a smile and remembering how he had instinctively sucked Q’s injured finger into his mouth when it bled. “It’s all part of a deep-seated oral fixation, according to Psych.”

Q snorted. “Frankly I’m surprised you ever manage to pass your evaluation.”

“What makes you think I _do_ pass?” Bond asked. He lowered his voice and added, “Anyone can study for a test if they put their mind to it.”

Q shook his head, undoubtedly appalled at Bond’s lack of concern for his psychological health.

Bond disregarded Q’s insistence that sucking a body part was a filthy thing. There was _disgusting_ filthy and there was _exciting_ filthy. Bond decided that Q hadn’t experienced the exciting kind of filthy in a very long time.

“I made some progress on my laptop while you were away,” Q said, savouring the buttery dough ball. “I thought you might like to know.”

“Of course,” Bond said, taking another gulp of Scotch, the ice tinkling in the glass. “I knew you’d work on it, despite being worried about the cats.”

“Some things are inevitable, as you know.”

Bond rolled his eyes. “And what did you find?”

“Well, I usually keep things locked up tight,” Q said, leaning over carefully to grab another slice of pizza without disturbing the cat on his lap.

“That goes without saying. I’ve heard you threaten your minions for violating the most inconsequential standards of security,” Bond said. “They fear you.”

“And rightfully so,” Q said, snagging a piece of pancetta before it fell onto the orange cat.

Copernicus had enough of the disruptions and jumped off Q’s lap to wander around the flat. Bond hoped he wouldn’t find his bedroom. He imagined the cat shedding all over his pillows or eviscerating his favourite bowtie.

“As it turned out, someone recently hacked into one of my email servers,” Q said.

“That can’t be good,” Bond said with a frown. He was surprised that Q didn’t seem more alarmed about it.

“It was completely unconnected to MI6. I had partitions and firewalls in place,” Q said, as if it explained everything.

“Of course,” Bond said, knowing that Q was too clever by half and he’d have to pay close attention to keep up with his technobabble.

“You remember in the American election, that drama over Hillary Clinton’s emails?” Q asked. He obviously registered Bond’s confusion and took care to break it down into terms he could understand.

“The Benghazi thing?” Bond asked, remembering. He did try to keep up with American politics in his spare time. “Her adversaries claimed that she had released classified information, but they couldn’t prove it because she sent her emails from a server that wasn’t affiliated with the government. Yes, I remember that. The Republicans tried to use it against her.”

“Only, she wasn’t doing anything illegal. However, she was using a different email server, outside of her governmental office,” Q said. “When you think about how many email addresses we acquire in the course of our lives, it’s astonishing that we never use more than one or two of them. Most of them are forgotten shortly after they’re created.”

“Like when you give an alternate email address to subscribe to a porn website,” Bond said.

Q dipped his chin to look at Bond over the rims of his glasses. “Yes, that’s what I’m talking about, exactly,” he said. “Pass that bottle over here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not a child, Bond. Besides, I should be entitled to something more than sparkling water for all I’ve endured today.”

“Very well,” Bond said, passing the bottle of Scotch to Q. “But don’t retch this 30 year-old Scotch into the toilet an hour from now, or I’ll regret giving it to you.”

Q scowled at Bond. He took the bottle and added a splash to his glass.

“So,” Q said. “The hacking I suffered was on an old email address from uni.” He took a sip of the Scotch and made a face.

“At MIT?” Bond asked.

“The school maintains email accounts for their alums. I don’t know of anyone who would ever use such an account,” Q said. “Maybe if you were unemployed and homeless after graduation, but no, no one ever uses them and the accounts stay dormant.”

“But yours wasn’t dormant?”

“I should have closed it,” Q said. “I really have no excuse, except that it would have taken a few minutes of my time.”

“So what now?” Bond asked.

“I’ve closed it tonight, but I’m running some diagnostics to find out where the hack originated,” Q said. “My guess is that it could be from a former classmate. Mind you, we have no idea if the hack is in any way related to what went on at MI6 today. I have to do some more research before I know more about that.”

Bond startled when Galileo suddenly leapt from the rug and ran to the French doors.

“I’m going to have a hard time getting used to having cats in the flat,” Bond said. “I nearly thought that one was a rat.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Q called to the cat. “He has no appreciation for how lovely you are.”

Q tapped on the arm of the sofa, and as if by magic, Galileo gracefully leapt onto it.

“There’s a good kitty,” Q said. “I’m sure your day was very scary too, but now, thanks to Bond, you’re safe and sound.”

Bond appreciated the gratitude. Besides, Q was beautiful when he spoke to the cats. Bond could understand why he had such an affinity for them. They were alike in the elegance of their movements, the quickness of their minds, and in the skilfulness of their hunting. Bond had no doubt that Q would figure out what had happened to get him removed from MI6. Like the proverbial cat chasing a mouse, Q would catch his prey and dispatch them swiftly for the harm they had done to him. Q might not have many kills to his name while using a traditional weapon, but with a keyboard, he was just as deadly as Bond.

Perhaps a former school acquaintance was jealous of Q’s success and laid a trail of Q’s past misdeeds for MI6 to follow, Bond speculated. Q was right, he wasn’t a child. Everyone had skeletons in their closet. Why not Q? Bond only hoped that Q could find a way to resolve the recent drama so he could be reinstated to MI6.

“I’m so tired,” Q said with a yawn. “Mmmm, this drink is making me feel fuzzy.”

“I always knew you were a lightweight,” Bond said. He rose from the sofa and collected the half-full bottle and the empty pizza box. Before taking them to the kitchen, he poured himself another two fingers of Scotch.

In the kitchen, Bond nearly tripped over the cat’s food bowl. After he binned the pizza box, he grabbed the bag of cat food he had taken from Q’s house and refilled the cats’ dish. The cats came running as if there was something new to see. Ridiculous animals.

Bond stooped down to pet the cats who purred delightedly as they dove into their full bowl. He supposed it was sort of fun to have a pet in the flat. Q certainly got a lot of comfort from them, judging the way he relaxed when Copernicus sat on his lap.

Bond noticed the bag of kanafeh on the kitchen table, so he brought it with him when he returned to the living room.

“Dessert?” he asked, shaking the bag at Q.

While Bond was in the kitchen, Q had moved from the sofa. He stood in front of the brown leather chair where Bond had deposited the rucksack of Q’s clothes. On top of the rucksack, the bundled duvet of framed photographs perched precariously.

“That would be perfect,” Q said, his hand going to his belly. “But I don’t think I can eat another bite.

Bond dropped the bag on the coffee table and went to help Q with the duvet.

“I worried I’d drop it on the street and the glass would shatter,” Bond said as he and Q each took an end of the parcel and lowered it to the floor.

“You didn’t need to do this,” Q said, unrolling the corners of the duvet and spreading it wide on the floor in front of Bond’s fireplace. “But I’m glad you did.”

“They seemed to be something personal that shouldn’t be left behind,” Bond said.

“As far as personal effects go, I had most of my important projects in my lab at work,” Q said, lowering his head. “But everything, except the raw materials—the designs are saved to my laptop if I have to start over again.”

Bond hadn’t realized what a brilliant idea it was to steal Q’s laptop for him. Even though Q now had possession of his files, Bond couldn’t bear to hear the distress in Q’s voice. Someone was going to pay for hurting him like this.

“I’m glad you’re such a stickler for making us save our files,” Bond said. “But for someone whose work lab looks like a bomb went off in it, I must say your house is the complete opposite of what I expected.”

“You think so?” Q asked.

“I felt like I walked into an architectural magazine. Neat, organized, but with a cosy feel to it,” Bond said, waving a hand at his own dishevelled home. “Homey, in a good way—nothing like this place.”

Q looked around at Bond’s cardboard boxes and the artwork that he had never bothered to hang on a wall. “I like to keep it neat,” Q said. “That way, I can relax when I’m at home.”

“It had a lot of atmosphere,” Bond said.

“Thanks, I guess,” Q said. “It’s really just decorated with the odds and ends that I’ve picked up over the years since uni.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be able to relax here, despite the mess,” Bond said, looking around.

“The cats help,” Q said, laying a hand on the duvet. “And having these pictures makes a difference.”

Bond walked back to the sofa and sat. “I’m just going to sit here and enjoy my whisky and kanafeh while I watch you unwrap them,” Bond said.

“Not exactly Christmas,” Q said with a weak smile, “but close enough.”

Q began to unwrap the duvet, pausing at each photograph, obviously enjoying having them back in his possession.

“Let me guess,” Bond said. “That one is of you and Emily.”

“They don’t call you a secret agent for nothing,” Q said.

“You look very much alike,” Bond said. “You have the same eyes and the same wild hair.”

“It’s not that wild,” Q said, running a hand through his fringe and twisting it out of his eyes.

Bond caught himself enjoying the view of Q’s pert arse while he set the photograph aside and reached for another. He savoured the taste of the kanafeh with a mouthful of whisky.

“And these are my parents,” Q said, lovingly lifting the photograph from its nest on the duvet. He knee-walked over to Bond so he could hand him the frame. “Emily has copies of all of our parent’s photographs, so this could be replaced, even if you never got into my house.”

“That’s reassuring to know,” Bond said. He had precious few photographs of his own parents, and no sibling to keep them safe, so he never became particularly attached to the sepia-toned memories stuffed in a notebook somewhere in his flat. He couldn’t miss what he never had. “It must have been fun growing up with a sister. You two seem close.”

“It had its pros and cons,” Q said. “I like Emily much more now that we’re adults. To be honest, I couldn’t stand her when she was a teenager.”

Bond smiled. “I can understand that,” he said. The disdain for a sibling, biological or adopted, was something he was all too familiar with, although he doubted Emily would bear a grudge the way Blofeld had for Bond.

“And here’s a picture of my graduation from uni,” Q said. “There’s Joe—he’s an executive at Intel now. And Jamie—he works for Google as some kind of education evangelist. He’s got a bunch of TED talks and he has a great sense of humour. My flatmate, Tim—he’s a genius and very involved with Anonymous, but no one is supposed to know that, including me.”

“And who’s that?” Bond asked, pointing to a figure proudly standing behind Q and his friends at graduation.

“That’s my advisor, Professor Morgan,” Q said of the dark-haired gentleman with blue eyes and high cheekbones. “He was absolutely brilliant.”

“Was?” Bond asked, sensing the loss in Q’s voice.

“Trevor moved away, right after graduation,” Q said. “And here’s a picture of Emily holding me when I was a baby. Surprised she didn’t drop me on my head, the little witch.”

Bond leaned closer to see that Emily was dressed as witch for Halloween. And Q was dressed as an adorable little frog.

“Cute,” Bond said. “It looks like you and Emily had a happy childhood.”

“We did,” Q said. “Thanks for getting these photographs for me. I wouldn’t have thought to ask for you to save them.”

Q stood and dragged his duvet to the sofa. He stretched his arms out and yawned.

“I’m tired myself,” Bond said, wiping the crumbs from his fingers.

“It’s been quite a day,” Q said. “I’ll sort through my clothes tomorrow. At least I have my _comfort blanket_ to fall asleep beneath tonight.”

“Such a baby,” Bond said with a smile. “I’m glad it will be of some help.”

Bond wasn’t surprised that Q was exhausted. It made him angry that someone had deigned to destroy Q’s life. How could anyone hurt this man who was so loyal and devoted, so kind and sweet, so wise and clever? He knocked back the remainder of his drink and clicked the remote control to silence the telly.

“And knowing the cats are safe will help me get to sleep,” Q said. “Tomorrow I can start putting together what happened today.”

Bond got to his feet. “We’ll get it sorted out,” he said. “There’s got to be something we can do to put things right again.”

Q tossed the duvet onto the sofa. He bit his lower lip and tugged at the hem of Bond’s old hoodie.

“I just….” Q said, his voice breaking. “I just don’t know how I can thank you enough. You broke into my house to get my cats, for God’s sake.”

Bond couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for Q. He took one step forward and wrapped his arms around him. He wanted to whisper words of comfort to him, but he could only hold him gently and hope that his problems could be resolved soon.

Q’s hands went to Bond’s back and pulled him closer.

Q felt warm and wiry beneath Bond’s fingers as he rubbed Q’s back through the thick hoodie. In Bond’s embrace, Q seemed to relax.

“Thank you,” Q whispered into Bond’s neck.

Bond held him tighter, wanting to shelter him from any harm.

Q tilted his head back. Through his glasses, his pale green eyes danced over Bond’s face.

Bond slid two fingers under Q’s chin and tipped his face so their lips could meet. He leaned forward an inch or so until their lips touched. At first, he feared that Q wouldn’t kiss him back, that he’d shove him away and deem Bond’s action as entirely inappropriate. But Bond was delighted when Q moved closer, their lips meeting in a soft kiss which Q accompanied with a slight moan. Bond let his fingers side up Q’s cheeks to bracket his face with his hands and contain the actions that ensued. The smacks of lips and clash of noses competed with barely audible murmurs and giggles as they first touched so intimately.

For Bond, it was a welcome change from his usual style. There was no motive to get information from an operative, no rushed passion because he was so damn happy to be alive. There was no attempt at seduction. No need for finesse. No, this was kissing for the pure enjoyment of it, and it felt so very wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said, pulling away first, his breath thick with want. He hated that he overstepped the bounds of his friendship with Q. “It’s wrong of me to take advantage of your gratitude.”

Q’s chest rose and fell slowly as he caught his breath. It made Bond want to rest his hand over Q’s heart to both calm him and to feel the wave of his chest under his hand.

“Blame it on the whisky, but if a kiss is what it takes to repay you for what you’ve done tonight, then it’s not only the easiest way for me to show my gratitude,” Q said, straightening his glasses. “But also the most pleasant,” he added, diving in quickly for one more taste of Bond’s lips on his own.

Bond smiled and stepped back. He left it at that, unwilling to do anything that he would surely regret in the morning. He and Q parted company with Q sleeping on the sofa, a purring cat on his chest.

Bond hoped that tomorrow, Mallory would have some answers.

~

Gareth Mallory was no pushover.

His years of being held as a prisoner by the IRA had made him tough as nails, decisive, and ever respectful of his superiors. So when notice was sent down by the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, he had no choice but to follow through with the orders, no matter how painful they were to obey.

Bond listened to Mallory drone on and on about how much he respected Q, apologizing that he had no choice when it came to suspending him from MI6 without notice. Despite Mallory’s support for Q and the presence of an audience of Q’s fans in his office, there was no convincing Mallory that he could act otherwise.

“But this is Q, we’re talking about,” Tanner argued. “Hasn’t he got the double-oh program out of hot water enough times that he warrants special consideration?”

“And what about his years of service?” Moneypenny added. “That should count for something. I _killed_ Bond and only got a slap on the wrist.”

Bond scoffed at her statement.

“I understand that we all have close relationships within the MI6 personnel ranks,” Mallory said, “but when one of our colleagues has been suspected of aiding the enemies of Her Majesty’s Government, the line must be drawn.”

“You’re talking treason. What proof do they have of this?” Tanner asked. “You’re not just going with word from the Secretary of State’s office?”

“I’ll remind you that I report directly to Secretary Hammond,” Mallory said. “And consequentially, so does all of MI6. It behoves us to follow his office’s protocol for such matters. You remember last year when Max Denbigh threatened to do away with all of our jobs? We’ve been under the scrutiny of the Secretary’s office ever since. A department head being convicted of treason could be the last nail in our department’s coffin. We can’t take any more chances.”

Bond stood and silently listened to Mallory’s rationale. So far, this meeting hadn’t shed very much light on the exact reasons why Q was dismissed. Watching the sweat pool on Mallory’s forehead, Bond got the feeling that the meeting had already lasted twice as long as he had intended.

“I’ve heard enough of this,” Moneypenny said. “I’ll never believe any of the charges against Q. He’s our _Q_. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone commit treason against his own government.”

“These _charges_ , as you call them,” Bond said, “Are we to understand that Q will be brought to trial?”

Mallory looked wearier than Bond had ever seen him. Surely he had been up all night asking the very same questions of his superior that Bond, Tanner, and Moneypenny now asked in his office.

“No, no, no,” Mallory said. “I was given the option of dismissing Q by eliminating his position here and invalidating his work for MI6, or a trial before the high court. I think you’ll agree that I saved both Q and our department considerable embarrassment by keeping the news of Q’s illicit activities private.”

“That seems rather unfair to me,” Bond said. “What kind of evidence of illicit activities do your superiors have against Q?”

“I think that’s what we’d all like to know,” Mallory said. “Unfortunately, the Secretary of State was less than forthcoming. It seems that the only information his office is willing to share is that they have proof of Q negotiating to supply arms and funding to feed terror cells in Raqqa, Mosul, Baghdad—”

“ISIS,” Tanner said, massaging his temples. “You think _our_ Q is working for ISIS?”

“Nothing could be more ridiculous,” Moneypenny said, gripping her biro in a shaking fist.

None of this made any sense to Bond. He knew Q as well as any of the people in Mallory’s office, and if his years of service had been worth anything to him, he knew that Q was not a terrorist, nor was he aiding a terrorist, nor was he an enemy of the government of England. To even suggest it was absurd.

“They tell me they have proof,” Mallory said. “There’s nothing I can do to refute it. I already have my hands full with budget cuts and cost overruns. We are talking about one employee… one very talented employee…. If there was anything further that I could have done to make them consider another option, I would have done it already. I thought I was doing the right thing by saving Q from having to go through a lengthy inquisition that could have landed him in prison for treason. In fact, I can’t even guarantee that he won’t be imprisoned, given the current situation with ISIS these days.”

Mallory looked at the faces of Q’s friends that had gathered for the meeting.

“I don’t suppose any of you know where Q fled to?” Mallory asked.

No one answered him.

“I’m sure they have agents from MI5 watching him to make sure he doesn’t leave the country,” Mallory said. “It will only be a matter of time before they find him if they want to interrogate him.”

Fortunately, Bond’s years of training helped him give nothing away. Moneypenny gave Mallory a blank stare as well. Bond knew he could count on her to protect Q. Bond couldn’t be sure if Moneypenny had told Tanner that Q was at Bond’s flat, because he simply shook his head as if he did not know Q’s whereabouts.

“Now, I believe most of you have a job to do, and at least one of you is overdue in medical. You’re all dismissed,” Mallory said. “And don’t even think of aiding and abetting Q. Put those thoughts right out of your heads. If you need anything from Q-branch, you’re to contact R.”

Tanner and Moneypenny reluctantly filed out of Mallory’s office.

Bond stood and buttoned his jacket.

“M?” Bond said.

“Yes, Bond,” Mallory said, looking at his watch. “What is it?”

“You don’t believe for a minute that Q is a traitor,” Bond said.

“No, of course not,” Mallory said, his expression grim. “That’s why I haven’t said anything about Q’s laptop that’s gone missing. But I have to take the word from the Secretary’s office as the truth.”

“This alleged _correspondence_ Q had with these terror cells,” Bond began. “Do we have any details? Any names?”

“No, no further details came out of Secretary Hammond’s office, besides the news of Q’s involvement,” Mallory said.

“Someone must know who he’s been communicating with,” Bond said. “Who is their leader?”

Mallory walked Bond to the office door and said, “That’s the problem. Hammond believes Q is their leader.”

~

“Hello, darling,” Bond said, as he leaned against Moneypenny’s desk. “Have I told you how ravishing you look today?”

“I could say the same for you, but then, you always look ravishing. Trying to get on Mallory’s good side?” Moneypenny asked, having none of Bond’s shenanigans. She waited until Mallory had closed the door to his office before dragging Tanner and Bond down a corridor and into an unused conference room.

“You’re in this with us, too?” Bond asked as Tanner closed the door behind them.

“Anything for a friend,” Tanner said.

“If we’re wrong about this, all of our jobs will be on the line,” Moneypenny said. “I’m sorry Bond, I told Tanner that Q is staying with you. We need all the help that we can get.”

Tanner had already helped Bond steal Q’s laptop, so knowing Q’s whereabouts hardly made a difference. With a few high-level MI6 insiders working on Q’s case, their odds of exonerating Q multiplied. Still, they needed to keep their allegiance to Q among themselves, even if Mallory seemed willing to play along to some degree.

“What’s going on?” Tanner asked. “Does Q have any idea how this could have happened?”

“How is he holding up?” Moneypenny asked. “I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of how he was cut loose by MI6.”

“Considering he’s out of a job and none of his credentials work anywhere, he’s holding up remarkably well,” Bond said.

Bond couldn’t shake the image of the Quartermaster drinking his tea and eating his toast in his kitchen this morning. His sleep-rumpled hair and Bond’s clothes keeping him warm seemed like something out of an Eton boy’s wet dream.

“What do you mean by credentials?” Tanner asked. “Has his identity been compromised as well?”

“The locks on his house have been changed,” Moneypenny said.

“Not only that,” Bond added, “but his Oyster card was voided. His credit card was declined… He doesn’t know about his bank account yet and he doesn’t dare try to access it online. I should have acted faster at lunch yesterday, but there was just no telling how deep this went.”

“You knew this was happening as it unfolded?” Tanner asked.

“They were out to lunch when the email came through that Q was no longer employed by MI6,” Moneypenny said.

“And he’s staying at your flat, not a safe house?” Tanner asked. “If he’s no longer affiliated with MI6, it’s the perfect opportunity for someone to go after him.”

“He’s staying at my flat, indefinitely,” Bond said. “He’ll be as safe there as anywhere, at least until we figure this out. There are people watching his house. I want to know who they are and why they’re watching.”

“What can we do to help him?” Moneypenny asked. Then, as if she had just remembered, she clasped her hand to her mouth and said, “His cats! He’ll be a wreck without his cats.”

“Not to worry,” Bond said. “I broke into Q’s last night, with his permission, of course, and I retrieved the cats, along with a collection of other odds and ends, clothing, pictures, things with some sentimental value.”

“You don’t think he’s going to see the inside of his home again,” Tanner said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is even more serious than I thought.”

“I told you so,” Moneypenny said, and then she turned her attention to Bond. “James, you’re a star to have saved Q’s kitties, an absolute star.”

Moneypenny wrapped her arms around Bond and hugged him tight. Bond hadn’t realized she would become so emotional over the pair of felines who did little else but shit in a plastic tub and track litter all over the flat, but he’d accept Moneypenny’s praise when he could get it.

“It’s bad, but here’s what we know,” Bond said, after Moneypenny released him. Perhaps if he laid it all out they could brainstorm to figure out how to help Q. “We know the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs believes Q is responsible for trafficking arms and funds to ISIS. Assuming Q is guilty, how would he do such a thing?”

“The Internet, of course,” Tanner said. “Q is afraid to fly. Not only that, but he couldn’t very well be travelling back and forth to the Middle East while he’s right under our noses at MI6 every day. We would have noticed something.”

“He’s the first one to arrive in the morning and the last to leave. If he _is_ guilty, he would have used email to communicate with his traffickers,” Moneypenny said.

“He’d do it from his home or when there weren’t many people in the office—either early morning or after seven or eight o’clock when most of the staff were gone for the day,” Tanner added.

“Q’s a genius. He’d have everything encrypted so no one could crack the code,” Moneypenny said, “not even his own staff.”

“Unless they’re working for him as part of the plan to supply the terrorists,” Tanner said.

“I think you’ve jumped the shark there, Tanner,” Moneypenny said.

“I’d have to agree,” Bond said. “With that many people involved, he would have been caught sooner and the entirety of Q-branch would be looking for new jobs, not just one Quartermaster.”

“Right,” Tanner said, “And R wouldn’t have been promoted.”

“We have to assume Q was a lone wolf,” Moneypenny said.

“He’d only communicate with his contacts online,” Tanner said, as he paced back and forth in front of the whiteboard. “A phone would be too easy to trace. It would be trackable through the networks. Online, he’d use some kind of cloaking software.”

“Software he developed,” Moneypenny said with a nod.

“And here’s another piece that may or may not be related to this situation,” Bond said. “Last night, Q discovered that one of his old email accounts had been hacked.”

“You’re just telling us this now?” Tanner asked, stopping in his tracks. “That seems to solve the problem. It might explain everything, might it not?”

“You think someone simply hacked Q’s email and is using his address to communicate with ISIS?” Moneypenny asked.

“And the PM’s office caught wind of it and shut him down,” Tanner said.

“I’m not sure I want to believe that MI6 would let someone as talented as Q go, over some half-arsed attempt like that,” Moneypenny said.

“Hold on. Not so fast,” Bond said. “Tanner has a good theory, but it doesn’t explain Q’s issues with things that aren’t in any way related to MI6, like his Oyster card and the locks on his doors.”

Moneypenny folded her arms across her chest.

Tanner looked at the floor.

Bond would swear he could see the cogs turning in Tanner and Moneypenny’s heads.

“I don’t know. What can we do to help him?” Tanner asked. “What would we want done if any one of us were caught up in the same mess?”

“We need to know more about the incriminating information. Unfortunately, it’s buried in the PM’s office,” Bond said.

“I know people,” Tanner said. “I can put some feelers out and see if anyone is willing to give up some details.”

“I can hack into the PM’s servers and try to find the addresses that Q’s emails went to,” Moneypenny said.

Both Tanner and Bond swivelled their heads to look at Moneypenny.

“What?” she asked with a shrug. “Q is my friend. He’s been teaching me some of his mad hacking skills.”

“You’re a star,” Bond said. He took Moneypenny by the shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything,” Moneypenny said.

“Same here,” Tanner said.

Bond headed for the door. “Q will be pleased to know that he has such talented friends looking out for him.”

“And where are you going?” Moneypenny asked with a gleam in her eye.

“Rest assured, I’m working on Q’s behalf as well,” Bond said. “Only he’s reduced me to taking care of his cooking and laundry.”

~

Bond spent the rest of the morning running errands. He dropped off the laundry at the dry cleaners and stalked the aisles of Waitrose, filling his cart with enough food to last two men and two cats a week or more.

Bond usually dined out, but he couldn’t very well keep up the habit of restaurant dining while Q could be in danger. As a double-oh agent, Bond already looked over his shoulder enough without having to worry about someone taking Q out over his Tikka Masala. And if they ordered take-away every night, Bond feared that he’d gain so much weight that he’d never pass his physical before being cleared for a new mission. He wasn’t anxious to go out on a new assignment, anyway—not when Q was holed up in his flat, but it was no excuse to order take-away every night.

With his cart full, he began to make his way to the cashier. Chicken and fish, fresh vegetables and fruits, rice and whole grain pasta would be on the menu for the next week. It was not much of a bother because Bond liked to cook, although cooking for himself alone made him lazy and uninventive. Having company would allow Bond to tap his creative side, not that he was consciously trying to impress the Quartermaster—God knew Q had enough problems of his own to manage without having to worry about preparing his next meal. Still, Bond flushed with warmth when he remembered that Q kissed him last night.

Bond wondered if Q liked asparagus.

When Bond arrived home, Q greeted him from behind his laptop. He had shaved and changed into clean clothes from the rucksack that Bond had taken from his house. A white t-shirt peeked out from the hem of a soft fuzzy jumper with green and grey stripes. A pair of faded jeans looked oddly out of place on the Quartermaster who usually only wore office attire in Bond’s presence.

The cats were flopped onto their backs, lounging lazily in front of the French doors that led to a small balcony overlooking Stanley Crescent. They blinked their eyes open when Bond arrived. He supposed they were trying to catch the sunlight that filtered through the hazy London cloud cover. That’s what Bond would do if he were a cat with a day off.

“Let me give you a hand,” Q said, when Bond deposited an armload of groceries onto the counter.

“Thanks,” Bond said, leaving his jacket on the back of a kitchen barstool. “We should be able to get it all with one more trip.

Q followed him down the steps and into the garage where they gathered the rest of the groceries from the car.

“Have you eaten lunch yet?” Bond asked when they set the rest of the shopping onto the countertop.

“I’m not complaining, but I was nearly ready to make a toastie out of leftover dough balls when you arrived,” Q said.

“We can do a bit better than that,” Bond said, taking food from the bags. “You have your choice of ready-made cottage pie or we can put together some turkey sandwiches. I’ll warn you not to spoil your appetite, though. I’m planning to take over the kitchen a bit later when I prepare dinner.”

“Bond cooking dinner? I never knew you had it in you,” Q said, his eyes wide.

“Why?” Bond asked. “I’ll have you know, I’ve watched my share of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“And here I thought you survived on pizza and toasties alone when you weren’t in the field,” Q said shaking his head.

“You’ll soon learn otherwise, I assure you,” Bond said. He looked forward to meeting Q’s backhanded challenge. He was sure he could impress most young boffins who hadn’t made anything more elaborate than _pot noodle_ since uni.

And tea.

The flat smelled of tea. A steaming mug sat atop the island countertop where Q’s laptop worked overtime. If Q were a fashionista, bergamot would be his signature scent.

Q helped unpack the food, putting away the eggs and cheese, while Bond handled the dry goods of oatmeal and bread. Their coordinated efforts made quick work of the task and Bond was pleased to see that Q knew his way around the kitchen already.

“I didn’t forget your feline friends,” Bond said shaking a bag of kibble.

Hearing the familiar sound, Copernicus and Galileo scampered to their feet, their little nails scraping the wooden floor as they raced to the kitchen. It was then that Bond noticed what had changed in his living room.

Bond stopped what he was doing, his eyes scanning the room from one side to the other. “You’ve been busy today.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Q said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Bond walked into the living room and spun around. The room had an entirely different feel from when he left in the morning. Q had presumably used the tools he had found in the bottomless junk drawer to mount the telly above the fireplace. It no longer sat on makeshift blocks on the living room floor.

A half dozen pieces of art that Bond had leaned against the walls of his flat when he moved in, had been hung above the sofa. He stopped to admire the images that must have taken some thought and care to arrange.

“I don’t mind at all,” Bond said.

His books were neatly stacked on the wide shelf beneath the coffee table. The scatter rug lay beneath the table. The chairs had been positioned on each side of the fireplace and turned to face the sofa at an inviting angle. Q’s duvet was draped along one arm of the sofa. 

There was not a cardboard box in sight.

“It looks like a completely different room,” Bond said.

“It didn’t take long,” Q said, his toes twitching in his stocking-feet. “Besides, you’ve given me such a warm welcome into your flat. It’s the least I could do, to show my appreciation by making it feel more like an actual home.” 

“I like it,” Bond said. “Even the floor looks better.”

“I can only do so much,” Q said. “But I’m glad you like it.” 

“Of course,” Bond said, taken aback by how much the appearance of his flat had improved with just a few small changes. The only thing that looked out of place was his rucksack from which Q’s clothing exploded. “You know, I have an empty trunk in my bedroom. If you’d like, we could move it out here and you could store your clothes in it so the cats don’t shed all over them.”

“If it’s no bother,” Q said, as he scratched his head in considering the offer. “I use my share of lint rollers all day long anyway.”

“No bother at all,” Bond said. He rested his hand on Q’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. His jumper was soft beneath Bond’s fingers and he could swear that Q leaned into his touch.

Bond felt something brush against his knee. When he looked down, he was delighted to see Copernicus stand on his hind legs. With his front paws, he reached up to knead at Bond’s trouser leg.

“Someone is impatient for his lunch,” Bond said. He reached down and stroked the cat’s head.

“Looks like you’d better deliver on your promise,” Q said.

In the kitchen, Bond refilled the cats’ community bowl. The pair had no qualms about sharing a dish from the ragtag collection of dinnerware that M had salvaged from Bond’s old flat. Like Q and Bond, the cats made do with what options were available to them.

With the cats fed, Bond and Q resumed putting away the food.

“Planning something special?” Q asked, holding up a bottle of champagne that had made its way into Bond’s grocery bag.

“Only your reinstatement as Quartermaster,” Bond said.

“I like the sound of that,” Q said wistfully.

“We’re not uncorking it just yet,” Bond said. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and you’re quite lucky to have so many friends who are willing to help you.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Q said. “And here I thought everyone at MI6 hated me.”

Bond snorted, but Q remained serious.

“You didn’t really think that, did you?” Bond asked. He was surprised that Q had lost quite a bit of his usual confidence, although he could hardly blame him. It wasn’t every day that the Secretary of State accused him of treason.

“If they think I’m guilty of something, how else might they be expected to react?” Q asked.

“On the contrary,” Bond said, pausing with a box of cereal in his hand. “You have allies that are willing to put their own jobs on the line in order to help you.”

“That’s very reassuring. It sounds as if you have been quite busy on my behalf,” Q said with a sigh. “I’ve made some strides toward resolving this nasty situation myself, while you were away gathering sustenance.”

“Speaking of sustenance, I’m starving, so it’s time for you to make your first decision as my flatmate,” Bond said. “Cottage pie or sandwiches?”

“Is the cottage pie microwaveable?” Q asked.

“It is, if we want it to be,” Bond said.

“That’s settled then,” Q said. “Considering we’re both hungry, we’ll take the easy route.”

Bond tore the wrapping off the package. “Hand me a… oh never mind, you’re not allowed to use the knives anymore,” Bond said, reaching for a knife. “How’s the finger?”

Q held his hand up. “I put a fresh bandage on it when I got out of the shower,” he said, “but it looked like it was well on its way to healing, thanks.”

“Good,” Bond said. “We have to believe that there are people looking for you who may not have the best of intentions. We can’t risk you injuring yourself so badly that you need to go to the hospital. A visit to MI6 medical is out of the question for now, so please, no more accidents.”

“I promise, I’ll be more careful,” Q said.

“Take a look in that middle drawer and see if you can find something useful to serve this with,” Bond said.

Q dug through the drawer and found a serving utensil while Bond carved out two hunks of pie. “How’s this?” Q asked holding up a spatula.

“That will do nicely,” Bond said. He reached into the cabinet to find two plates. “It looks like you tidied up the kitchen.”

“I washed our dishes and put away the ones that were in the strainer,” Q said, plopping the food onto their plates. “I need to do something to earn my keep.”

Bond instantly thought of a thousand filthy things that Q might do to earn his keep, most of them involved Q on his knees. He fought back a growl, tamping down the thoughts as quickly as they came.

“No, not at all,” Bond said. “If you keep that up, you’ll spoil me with efficient housekeeping as well as the pleasure of your company.” He set the plates in the microwave and punched the buttons to heat their food. 

“I can’t help it,” Q said. “My mother raised me to behave properly in such circumstances.”

“She did,” Bond said, not knowing what it might have been like if his mother had survived long enough to raise him to adulthood. “I bet you were a joy to have as a flatmate in uni.”

“I was a fucking delight,” Q said insistently.

Bond rolled his eyes. He had no doubt that Q was the perfect uni flatmate. He not only cleaned up his flatmate’s messes, but he also probably provided them with fake identification so they could buy alcohol.

Bond guessed that Q also perfected the art of receiving a blow job as thanks for his services. He wondered what it would feel like to have Q’s long clever fingers massaging his scalp as he explored Q with tastes and touches while cradled between Q’s legs. He licked his lips and imagined what exotic scents Q liked to bathe in. He dreamed of the inviting taste of Q balls as he licked at Q’s sensitive skin. He wanted to see the flushed shade of his cock with its pink tip nestled shyly beneath his foreskin. He wanted all the time in the world to explore—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Bond nearly slid onto the floor when the microwave announced that lunch was ready.

“Do you want tea?” Q asked.

“It will help me stay awake,” Bond said. “I’m still not sleeping properly after that last mission.”

“Do you often have difficulty when you return?” Q asked. “I’m sure the suicide bombing can’t have helped matters.”

“Of course,” Bond said. “That’s one of the hazards of being a field agent. You never know when the mission may become your last. It usually takes me a few days to adjust to the time difference, even when I’ve been to a time zone that’s only a few hours off.”

While Q prepared the tea, Bond took the plates from the microwave. He cut a slice down the middle of one portion of pie and tested the food with his finger to check if it was hot.

“That’s why MI6 gives its agents a mandatory two weeks off between such missions,” Q said. “You can always take a nap after lunch, if you think it will help. There’s no need for you to devote your every waking moment to my dilemma when you have issues of your own.”

“It’s no worry at all,” Bond said, pushing a plate of cottage pie across the counter to Q. “Without you there, MI6 seems strangely unfamiliar to me.” Bond stabbed his fork into his pie. The mashed potatoes were thick and lumpy like the cottage pie he had as a child.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Q said, his pink tongue darting out to test the temperature of the food on his fork. “But it won’t serve you in the long run. I intend to find out why this happened to me so I can get back to work.”

At MI6, Bond had learned to control himself around Q’s posh voice and his riotous curls, but he worried that living in such close proximity might make it difficult to resist his allure. Q deserved so much better than Bond could give him, so he had to keep his hands off the Quartermaster and his mind off what he would do to him if given an opportunity. Bond was a monster—the kind of person who would use sex as a favour, a repayment for information or assistance. Bond didn’t want Q to know the monster he had become in his years as a double-oh agent. Q deserved not to know. He banished all thoughts of bedding Q from his mind.

Over lunch, Bond told Q what he had learned from his meeting with Mallory. They both agreed that it was for the best that Mallory not know that Q was staying at Bond’s flat.

Q was pleased to learn that Tanner and Moneypenny were willing to help with researching into what exactly happened at the Secretary of State’s office that led him to believe Q was assisting a terror organization.

“I’ve done some research on the mobile you brought me,” Q said. He glanced across the countertop to where the mobile lay connected to his laptop. 

“And?” Bond asked, taking a bite of pie.

“It was a burner, like we suspected,” Q said. “But I was able to retrieve the last number that was dialled.”

“Do you think that will be helpful?” Bond asked. He knew Q was talented enough to get information from a device, but whether it would be useful or not had nothing to do with Q’s abilities.

“It went to a number that last pinged Canary Wharf,” Q said. “My best guess is that the recipient did business in one of the warehouses on the waterfront.”

“You won’t get any accurate names there,” Bond said. He had lived in London long enough to be familiar with the transient businesses that set up shop in the Docklands only to turn over after a few months of low profits.

“No, but I made further modifications to my methods and now we know that whoever was on the other end of that line last night was receiving the message from here in London,” Q said.

“So it wasn’t answered by some unknown entity in another country?” Bond said.

“Whoever you met outside my home was communicating with someone in London,” Q said. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten with it.” He took another bite.

Bond scraped the last of the pie from his plate with the side of his fork.

“You’re safe here, in my flat,” Bond said, worried that Q would think of leaving for some place that was perceived to be safer. “You know you need to stay here until we find out who has targeted you.”

“I’ll try not to worry,” Q said. “I trust you. And I trust Tanner and Moneypenny. I know you’re all doing your best.”

They finished off lunch and Bond set the dishes in the sink to be taken care of later.

“Show me what else you’ve been working on,” Bond said. “It looks fantastic, but you can’t have spent _all_ morning rearranging my flat.”

“No, I’ll show you my laptop,” Q said. “I think you’ll be fairly impressed.”

“I usually am,” Bond said, truly meaning it.

Q unplugged his laptop and carried it into the living room. Bond joined him on the sofa, where they needed to sit side by side to view the screen. Galileo followed the pair and made himself comfortable on the arm of the sofa.

“Let me just pull up the search I ran, and I’ll show you the results,” Q said. He set the laptop on the coffee table and began to type.

Bond settled back in his seat. He watched Q’s fingers move over the keys with familiar confidence. Bond observed that Q’s moods had fluctuated erratically throughout the ordeal of his banishment from MI6. Although Q seemed confident now, Bond was well aware that Q was in a fragile state of mind and he could exhibit signs of despair without warning. Bond vowed that he would do whatever it took to help Q maintain his calm nature, which was undoubtedly shaken.

Whether Q was guiding an agent out of harm’s way, or searching for an enemy target to destroy with a few keystrokes, he demonstrated strict professionalism and single-minded determination. He rarely made a mistake, and if he did, he was the first to admit it. This was part of the reason why the accusations made by the Secretary of State’s office were so disturbing to Bond. Even if Q had dealings with terrorist organizations for the benefit of MI6, he would have been the first to suggest that his actions were a misinterpretation of the communication.

But no such suggestion was made. Bond worried that Q was doomed.

“Ah, here we go,” Q said. He lifted the laptop from where it rested and sunk back into the sofa beside Bond. Balancing the laptop on his knees, Q tipped the screen so Bond could see the search he had pulled up.

Bond hooked a finger over the lid of the laptop and adjusted the angle.

“Sorry,” Q said, shifting a bit in his seat. He bent his knees further and rested his feet on the coffee table. “Can you see better now?”

“That’s good,” Bond said. “What are we looking at?” He scanned the screen which contained row after row of names and dates, which were displayed chronologically by the year of graduation. “It looks like a school search.”

“That’s right,” Q said. “It’s everyone I went to uni with, whose profile has indicators similar to a terrorist.”

“You went to school with a lot of terrorists,” Bond said.

“Not quite,” Q said, nudging him with an elbow. “These are the people who fit a profile.”

“Profiles aren’t always accurate,” Bond said.

“Now you’re catching on,” Q said.

“I’ve always tried to be a good student,” Bond said.

Q smirked. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“These are all from MIT?”

“And every one of them attended during the years I did.”

“Because of the email that was hacked,” Bond said. “But what if the hacker wasn’t from MIT?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Q said.

“Because the profile is filtering for someone who would be likely to go after you _or_ whether they would help an outsider to MIT to do the same,” Bond said, pleased with himself for keeping up.

“You’ve got it,” Q said. “Using the profile I created, we’ve narrowed down the hacking suspects to these forty-two individuals.” He tapped on a few more keys and a thumbnail for each of the forty-two suspects appeared on the screen.”

“Hmmm… which one of you is the baddie?” Bond asked, pondering aloud as he studied the images on the screen.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Q said, settling himself comfortably next to Bond. He scrolled through each of the forty-two profiles, pausing to study each face, each set of data.

Bond could feel the heat rising off of Q’s body as he brought up name after name on the screen. None of them were familiar to Bond, but they could have been anyone he passed in the course of a day in London or abroad. It infuriated him that there were so many people who might sabotage Q’s reputation.

Was it Kenneth Lucien or Leonard DeMille? Christoph Woods or Dav Litner? Paul Fallun, Miyuki Fong, or any of the dozens of suspects that remained to be examined?

“None of them scream out to me as the obvious infidel,” Q said, scrolling to another suspect.

“Did you have a lot of enemies at uni?” Bond asked sleepily.

“No more than the average genius,” Q said, taking time to examine another former classmate.

“Competition must have been fierce in your classes,” Bond said.

“It was brutal, but I made a game of it,” Q said, studying another face for signs of deceit.

“Of course you did,” Bond said. He stretched his arms over his head and listened to his knuckles crack when he intertwined his fingers and squeezed.

“I can narrow the search further, so we only see suspects with ties to the Middle East,” Q said.

Bond rolled his shoulders and slung his right arm over the back of the sofa.

“Let’s see,” Bond said.

Q tapped his fingers across the screen to refine the search. “There’s Kishan Rehm, Nathan Figg, Harold Holt,” Q said.

“How many different ways can you filter them?” Bond asked. He didn’t want Q to stop speaking. He wanted Q to tell him his stories, the smooth tone of Q’s voice lulling him to sleep.

“Here, let me try this,” Q said. He modified some of the filters and applied new ones from a drop-down menu of hundreds of characteristics.

“Hmm…” Bond murmured. “Look at that.”

Q busily typed away at the keyboard. “Now, I narrowed it down so only the people without families will show in the search,” Q said. “With these filters in place, we’ve cut our original list down to thirteen suspects in all.”

“Thirteen, you say…?” Bond said.

“Assuming that people with families are less apt to commit cyber-crimes,” Q said.

“I see,” Bond said.

“And if we narrow it down even more and take away the people who aren’t CEOs of their own companies—considering they would have the most to lose,” Q said. “We get these five. Do any of these guys look evil to you?”

Q turned his head to look at Bond, but Bond’s eyes were half-closed as he drifted off to sleep. Bond breathed evenly, warmed by the physical connection of Q’s body resting by his side.

Q frowned, sensing that their conversation was over. “I’ll just have a look at the rest of these while you catch up your beauty sleep then,” he said softly.

Without thinking, Bond murmured something, which was thankfully unintelligible, and slid his hand from behind the sofa to Q’s shoulder. Bond’s fingers skimmed across the soft warmth of Q’s jumper.

This was the blissful sleep that had eluded Bond for so many nights. He let his head slump to the side, seeking out a comfortable spot in the space between Q’s neck and his bony shoulder.

Q raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t push Bond away or jostle him awake.

Content that he was not going to be disturbed, Bond closed his eyes fully and drifted off. He woke momentarily when he felt Q shift against him. Q reached up to close the lid of the laptop. Beside Bond’s sleeping body, Q stretched his legs, taking his feet off the coffee table and tucking them underneath him on the sofa.

Bond sensed the movement, and in his slumber he wrapped his other arm around Q. Q felt solid and warm in his arms.

Q relaxed against Bond’s chest without protest.

In his sleep, Bond dreamed that Q had been reinstated at MI6. The worries of the past day were over. Every time a stressful thought entered Bond’s mind, he needed to remember that Q was in his arms. Bond let one eye peek open to admit a tiny sliver of light. He needed to prove to himself that Q was really there, soft dark curls tickling Bond’s nose, the scent of bergamot on his clothes, under his skin. Assured that the day’s crisis had ended with Q asleep, Bond closed his eyes again. There was only peaceful sleep to enjoy now, sleep shared with Q.

And so they slept, taking their little nap until Bond’s mobile rang.

Bond jolted awake.

Q lurched forward, out of Bond’s arms.

Bond felt the chill seep into his chest where Q had kept him warm.

“Bond here,” he said, leaning forward to touch his feet to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Bond,” Moneypenny said. “I do hope you’re enjoying your day off.”

“I was, before you rang,” Bond said. He cast a glance sideways to where Q had moved further down the sofa, out of Bond’s reach. “What do you have for me?” 

“Tanner has talked to a few of his contacts in the Secretary of State’s office,” Moneypenny said. She lowered her voice and whispered, “And I’ve done what you asked of me. Everyone here is so upset about Q, but we have a name, and from what I could tell, it’s legitimate.”

“Go ahead,” Bond said.

“It’s Ahmadali Tabatabati,” Moneypenny said. “He was a professor at MIT. Q most likely took a class from him. He was in charge of the computer engineering department until 2011, when he resigned from the school and moved to Saudi Arabia.”

“You’re sure about this?” Bond asked, sitting up straight.

“The data doesn’t lie,” Moneypenny said.

“Very well then,” Bond said. “Thanks for all your help. I think we can take it from here.”

“Good luck,” Moneypenny said. “And do keep our Q safe.”

“I will,” Bond said before ending the call. He set the mobile on the coffee table and looked at Q.

“You’ve got news?” Q asked. “Will it be helpful?”

Bond worried about breaking the news to Q.

It was clear that Q revered his uni professors. They held a special place in Q’s life. Professor Morgan was a friend to Q and his classmates. Bond was certain that other professors left their mark on Q as well. Q would feel terrible to have his trust betrayed by someone who should have had Q’s best interests at heart.

“It might hurt,” Bond said.

“Go ahead and give it to me,” Q said. “I’m not going to blame the messenger, if that’s what you think.”

“Does the name Ahmadali Tabatabati sound familiar to you?” Bond said the name without preamble, as if ripping a bandage off a wound. He hoped the speed would allow for the healing to begin sooner.

Q closed his eyes.

“Trevor,” Q said.

“I’m sorry, Q,” Bond said.

“Trevor, what have you done?” Q asked. He didn’t move from his position on the sofa.

“Who’s Trevor?” Bond asked.

Q’s fingers twitched as if he urged to have the keyboard under his hands, as if that would somehow make everything all right. Bond shifted closer to Q on the sofa. He remembered the times in his own life when he received devastating news. There was seldom a comforting hand that reached out to him in those rare and awful times. Perhaps he could provide for Q what he had longed for himself.

“Trevor Morgan… he changed his name when he converted to Islam,” Q said.

“He was the professor in your photograph,” Bond said, remembering.

“No,” Q said, holding up his hand to stop Bond from venturing closer, to prevent him from providing the comfort that Bond knew he could give. The comfort he could have used when times were dark.

“You were on the right track when you searched through your old classmates,” Bond said, sitting back in his seat, hands fidgeting across the sofa fabric, looking for something to do.

Q remained silent.

“It must feel pretty infuriating to learn that your professor hacked you,” Bond said. “Perhaps he was after some information? It doesn’t have to mean that he was the one who led to your being dismissed from MI6. He may not have had anything to do with it. It could be a mistake.”

Bond watched Q swallow, his eyes glassy with tears. He wished that Q would talk to him, that he would say something so Bond could act, so Bond could comfort him in whatever way he could.

Q took off his glasses and held them in his hand.

The intentional distortion of his vision made Q blind to all of his surroundings. It seemed to Bond that Q wanted it that way. He wanted to retreat into his own darkness without the sense of sight to distract him with the comfort that he thought he didn’t deserve.

The flat was quieter than Bond could remember it being in the past day. Even the cats slept somewhere unseen and didn’t venture close to Q, who was in need of their special brand of comfort.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Q said.

And in that moment, Bond never had felt so lonely. 

He knew Q would feel better if he could talk about this professor and the ramifications of the hacking. But Bond wasn’t going to be an arsehole by pressuring Q into doing something he didn’t want to do.

“I’m here when you want to talk,” Bond said. He went to the kitchen and started preparing dinner.

~


	4. Chapter 4

Bond ripped open a package of thinly sliced chicken breasts and left them on the counter while he cleaned up their plates from lunch. Edgy and energized from the conversation with Moneypenny, Bond needed to do something to expend the built up energy that coursed through him. He was frustrated with Q’s silence.

In a lower cupboard, he found a bag of white bread flour, left over from a previous baking experiment. He removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves before dumping a few handfuls of flour into a bowl. The rustling of food packages brought Copernicus and Galileo to the kitchen. Galileo leapt onto the counter while Bond dredged the raw chicken breasts through the flour.

“You don’t belong up here, kitty,” Bond said to the cat.

Galileo ignored him.

When Bond was finished with the chicken breasts, he returned them to the refrigerator to keep them away from Galileo’s curious paws.

Bond took a package of mushrooms from the refrigerator. He set them in the sink and ran cold water over them. The cats were far less curious about the mushrooms than they were the chicken. Copernicus wandered into the living room and Bond could only hope that he found a warm place on Q’s lap. Perhaps the cat could help Q through his most recent emotional crisis.

Bond had enough trouble with re-entry after his missions. He didn’t need a non-communicative Quartermaster thrown into the mix. He knew very well that if he gave Q time to think on his own for a while, he would come around. People in crisis generally did. Bond knew he simply needed to be patient—something that was easier said, than done.

When the mushrooms were rinsed, Bond took a pot and a frying pan from a cabinet. He held the pot under the water and filled it halfway. He set both pans on the stovetop, splashing olive oil into them.

He drained the mushrooms and spread them out on a paper towel to dry. Next, he wiped his hands on a tea towel and peeked into the living room to see if Copernicus had found his mark. Unfortunately, the chairs that Q had re-arranged earlier in the day blocked Bond’s view of Q’s lap. Q still sat on the sofa, glasses off, head down.

Bond knew that Q couldn’t remain silent forever. He sliced up the mushrooms. Q would have to talk about this Trevor character eventually, since it seemed he might hold the key to discovering why Q had been removed from his position at MI6.

Bond wasn’t going to push him. Q wasn’t an enemy of the government who needed to be interrogated. As difficult as it was for Bond to resist using strong-arm tactics against Q to get him to talk, Bond kept his cool, taking his frustration out on a Vidalia onion instead.

When the onion was diced, Bond added a pat of butter to the oil in the frying pan and set the pasta water to boil. It was hard to not be angry with Q for shutting off, no matter that Bond knew he needed to respect Q’s temporary silence if he wanted Q to talk about his relationship with the professor. He surreptitiously made his way to the bathroom to take a leak, making sure he looked in on Q as he passed the living room. He was a goddamn secret agent and this was his flat. He was determined not to let Q’s silence get the better of him.

When he passed Q on his way back to the kitchen, he was a bit relieved to see that Copernicus was perched on his lap and Q’s hand rested on the orange cat’s back.

Bond turned on the gas beneath the frying pan. While the butter melted, he pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator and found the corkscrew to open it. He took a swig from the bottle and let the cool wine wash down his throat. It wasn’t whisky, but it would have to do for now. He replaced the cork and added the sliced mushrooms and onions to the sizzling pan.

Bond sautéed the vegetables, stirring and flipping them in the butter and oil. Their aroma filled his flat, reminding Bond of a recent mission to Italy and the sumptuous foods that were served in the country’s capital.

For a moment, he thought he sensed Q’s presence behind him. He didn’t turn around, in case he was wrong. He moved the vegetables around in the pan and felt relieved when Q spoke from only a few feet away.

“I’m sorry for behaving like a child,” Q said.

Bond looked over his shoulder to see Q standing in the kitchen, his head down.

“I’m sorry the news was so upsetting to you,” Bond said, shaking the pan to coat the vegetables in oil and butter.

“Thanks,” Q said. He stepped forward so Bond could feel the warmth of his chest against Bond’s back. Q looked over Bond’s shoulder. “What are you making? Can I help?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Bond said. The words came out sharper than he intended. He mitigated their effect by telling Q how he could help, “You can get the package of linguini out of the refrigerator, and look in the door for the bottle of capers.”

Q obediently did as he was asked.

Bond reached into the overhead cabinet and brought down a pair of wine glasses. Q looked like he needed a drink. He set the glasses on the counter and uncorked the bottle.

“Wine?” Bond asked.

“I don’t drink often, but if there were ever a time to start, it would be now,” Q said. He pulled out a barstool and sat at the island.

Bond filled their glasses and set Q’s in front of him.

“Cheers,” Bond said, raising his glass and touching Q’s glass with it.

“Cheers,” Q said. He sipped from the glass while Bond turned his attention back to dinner.

Bond absentmindedly moved the onions and mushrooms around in the pan, hoping that Q had come to the kitchen to talk. 

Q sipped from his wine glass. “I don’t know Ahmadali Tabatabati,” he said, finally.

“Trevor Morgan may have changed his name, but he was still the same person you knew from uni,” Bond said.

“He was my advisor, like I told you,” Q said.

“And you were very close,” Bond added unnecessarily. It was obvious, by how distraught Q seemed when he heard the news. Bond ground some salt into the pasta water.

“What are we having?” Q asked.

“Chicken Piccata.”

“It smells delicious.”

“It will be,” Bond said. “Tell me about the Professor Trevor Morgan you knew, your advisor.”

Bond sliced a pair of lemons in half. He was tempted to make a comment about the knife and the lemon, but that moment had passed with Q. They were now on to darker and deeper conversations that Bond couldn’t bullshit his way through with clever puns.

“Trevor... his name was Trevor. You’ll think I’m a geek,” Q said.

Bond stopped in mid-motion and looked at Q.

“Sweetheart, there’s little you could do to make me _not_ think of you as a geek,” Bond said. “But I respect your knowledge and cherish your trust in me, anyway. Do continue.”

“It’s a long frustrating story,” Q said, sipping his wine.

Bond broke an egg into a shallow bowl and set it in front of Q. He handed him a fork and said, “Perhaps you could take your frustration out on this.”

Bond grabbed another bowl and filled it with breadcrumbs from a pre-packaged cylinder.

Q beat the egg until it became frothy. He didn’t speak while he did it. Bond realized too late that assigning him such an activity had granted him permission to be silent.

“That’s good enough,” Bond said, taking the bowl away from Q. He put it on the counter next to the breadcrumbs and took the chicken from the refrigerator.

“Professor Morgan was my favourite instructor while I was an undergrad,” Q said. “He was brilliant.”

Bond moved the sautéed mushrooms and onions onto a plate and put the plate into the oven, turning it on to warm. “We all have our favourites,” Bond said, remembering fondly his experiences at Eton before he was caught shagging a young teaching intern. Pity his libido at an early age led to his expulsion from the school. He’d have passed every course with flying colours if he could have put his mind to it.

“He was the Dean of the Computer Science department at MIT,” Q said. “He was British, his family was originally from Brixton.”

“The pair of you had a lot in common then, no doubt,” Bond said. He dipped each floured chicken breast into the egg mixture and finally into the bread crumbs before adding them to the frying pan.

“That smells wonderful,” Q said. “Do you need any more help?”

“All set here, thanks,” Bond said, adding the pasta to the boiling water.

Q finished his glass of wine and set the empty glass on the island countertop.

Bond was quick to refill it.

“Professor Morgan… Trevor… was a great help to me when my parents died,” Q said.

Bond listen eagerly. Now they were getting somewhere. The pieces of what happened to Q began to click into place. Q was a geeky uni student, under tremendous pressure to perform. He must have had so many expectations thrust upon him. Then, his parents died in the paramotor accident. He must have been barely out of his teens when it happened. No matter how Q dismissed the incident, telling Bond that he could handle it as an adult, Q wasn’t fooling anyone. The loss of his parents affected Q as profoundly as Bond parents’ deaths had affected him, maybe more so.

Bond wondered what Q’s childhood home was like. Was it as glorious as Skyfall had been in its heyday? Had there been fires laid in every hearth to chase away winter’s chill? He hoped that Q’s parents had provided a loving home before it was all dashed away, just as the climbing accident that claimed Andrew and Monique’s lives did for Bond.

Steam rose from the pot when the pasta water reached a boil. Bond turned the burner down and turned each piece of chicken to its other side.

“It was a difficult time for me,” Q said. “Perhaps more difficult than I let on before.”

Bond stirred the pasta and returned to meet Q at the island.

“You can trust me,” Bond said, raising his wine glass. “You know that, right?”

Q nodded. “I need to trust you,” Q said. “Especially now that we know who’s responsible for the hacking.”

“I couldn’t agree more. So, you’re sure this was no mistake?” Bond asked.

Q let out a shaky sigh. “It was no mistake. Trevor’s hacking of my email was intentional,” Q said.

“If we’re going to figure this out, you need to talk to me,” Bond said. “Tell me what you’re thinking about why this Trevor fellow would want to do such a thing to you.”

Q sipped his wine. “He can be very dangerous, I think,” Q said.

Bond grabbed two plates from the cupboard and set one before Q and one for himself. Perhaps if he stopped prodding Q for information, Q would be more forthcoming about what he meant by _dangerous_. He opened the oven door and forked the chicken onto the warm plate with the mushrooms and onions. He added another dollop of butter to the frying pan. Taking one lemon half in each hand, he squeezed the fruit until the juice sizzled in the pan. When he was finished, he did the same to his second lemon. The aroma of citrus filled the kitchen and wafted through the flat. It reminded Bond of his trip to the Middle East, where the scent of oranges and lemons burst from the gardens as frequently as did the sound of gunfire and sorrow.

“He went to Dubai and did some consulting work after my senior year of university,” Q said.

Bond listened to what Q said, hoping he would tell him more. He added a splash of wine to the liquid in the pan and turned up the heat.

“He travelled a lot in that region—Syria, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia. He once sent me a postcard from Petra,” Q said. “I was a grad student then, working on my master’s.”

“Did he travel back to the United States often?” Bond asked.

Q shifted uncomfortably on his barstool. “He came back and told me that he had converted to Islam,” Q said.

Bond raised an eyebrow. He drained the pasta into a colander in the sink and divided it between their two plates.

“There is Islam, and there is _Islam_ ,” Bond said. “Do you think he was radicalized? It’s a bit unusual for a university professor, but it could happen.”

“He was the smartest man I ever knew,” Q said shaking his head slowly.

Bond took the chicken and the sautéed vegetables from the oven and arranged them atop the pasta on each of their plates. With a pair of scissors he snipped some fresh parsley to scatter on top of the chicken.

“You amaze me with your cooking skills,” Q said. “This looks beautiful, like a meal worthy of eating in an elegant dining room.”

“Maybe I’ll get a bigger flat someday,” Bond said. “You can help me decorate it.”

“You can keep this flat,” Q said, picking up his fork. And then he whispered as if he were telling Bond a secret, “You can get away with it, if you use cloth napkins and put a pair of matching placemats under the plates.”

“A pair?” Bond asked. “I hope that means you like my cooking enough to join me more often.”

“I’d like that,” Q said.

Bond thought Q smiled. Returning his attention to the pan on the stove, he added the capers to the liquid and ground in a bit of salt and pepper. After a few stirs of his spoon, he brought the pan to the island and drizzled the sauce onto the chicken.

“This is truly incredible,” Q said. “No one at MI6 would believe it.”

“You mustn’t speak of it to anyone,” Bond said, lowering his voice. He left the pan in the sink and pulled out a barstool to sit across from Q at the island. 

“I’d be grateful to have the opportunity to keep it a secret from them,” Q said.

Bond heard the pain in Q’s voice. For a moment, he forgot his frustration with Q’s evasiveness about Trevor. He reached his hand across the island and clasped Q’s wrist. “You’ll have the opportunity,” Bond said. “I promise.” He hoped to convey to Q how much he cared about him. Q needed to believe that Bond was on his side and would help him in any way that he could.

Q looked at their hands where they were joined, but he didn’t pull away.

Bond took a deep breath and let his thumb brush across the skin of Q’s slender wrist. He marvelled at the capable hands that had saved Bond’s life more times than he could count. With Q’s voice in his ear, and his fingers on the keyboard, tracking his location so he could guide him to safety or lead an extraction team to him, Bond never doubted Q’s dedication to MI6 or its agents, especially himself.

Q turned his hand so his palm faced upward. 

Bond went with the movement and pressed his palm against Q’s. He could feel the pulse beating through his skin. If he were bolder, he would have tugged Q toward him across the island. He would have slid his fingers through Q’s hair and brought their lips together. He would have touched his forehead to Q’s and whispered to him that everything would be all right. They would find the answers together and Q would be safe from anyone who would do him harm.

But Bond didn’t know how to deal with his feelings for Q. They were nothing like the feelings he had for the women he seduced on missions for MI6. The sultry-voiced women always expected him to perform, to act a certain way, and to satisfy their needs in exchange for information that would assist MI6 in making the world a safer place. There was no room for Bond’s needs in these conquests. He was simply a cog in the wheel.

With Q, Bond went from wanting to shag him senseless one moment and wanting to soothe his aching heart the next. Bond slid his hand away, afraid to take what he wanted, afraid to give what he had, worried that such closeness would come back to destroy what little of his heart remained when things went pear-shaped between them. With Bond’s luck, he would learn that Q was a plant, Trevor’s ally all along, and a mastermind of an international terrorist organisation.

That was how it went with Bond. Nothing ever turned out the way he wanted. Life had taught him that he could accept nothing at face value. He would be a fool to do so. Anytime he took a chance, he resigned himself to waiting for the second shoe to drop, the next hail of bullets to fly, the next trust to be broken. He had no reason to believe that anything would be different with Q. Sometimes a spark of hope flared, but all too quickly, the flame would be extinguished by the memories of his past.

They ate in a silence that was punctuated only by Q’s appreciative moans about Bond’s cooking.

When their plates were empty, Q offered to take care of the dishes. They worked as a team, clearing their places and depositing the dishes in the sink. When they finished, Bond wiped down the countertop where they had eaten, one step closer to civilized dining compared to last night’s pizza on the sofa. He brought the cloth to the sink and watched Q rinse the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher, adding some soap to the pans so they could soak for a while before being scrubbed clean. If only Bond’s past could be cleaned so easily, rinsed under a rush of water by Q’s loving hands.

“I need to tell you more about Trevor, if you’re serious about helping me get my job back,” Q said, as if it had taken him a great deal of time to come to this conclusion. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

A rush of affection surged through Bond. He couldn’t deny it further. He stepped behind Q and clasped his shoulders. Q relaxed and leant into his touch.

“Of course I’m serious about helping you,” Bond whispered. How could Q believe anything else?

Bond wrapped his arms around Q and pressed a kiss to the little triangle of hair that dipped low on Q’s nape. Q inhaled.

They stood there for a moment, with Bond just breathing Q in, unsure of what his next move or Q’s next gesture might be. When Bond was sure that Q wasn’t going to wriggle out of his grasp, he left a trail of tiny kisses along the column of Q’s neck.

Q said, “When we were on the sofa earlier, and I showed you the profiling I did while you were gone today….”

“I dozed off,” Bond said. He was sorry for making Q think he wasn’t paying attention. It was just that he was so tired and Q was so comfy so sit beside and to hold in his arms. He hoped that Q wasn’t angry that he took advantage of his warm body and cosy familiarity. If only Moneypenny’s call hadn’t ruined the afternoon for them.

“Do you think we could do that again?” Q asked.

It seemed strange that Q felt he needed to ask permission to show him the profiling he had worked on while Bond visited MI6 and ran errands. He could show him whatever he liked. Bond almost said it aloud before he realized that Q didn’t mean half as much about showing him the profiling, as he did about how they had lain in each other’s arms on the sofa. Bond couldn’t imagine turning down such an opportunity, no matter how inappropriate.

Bond smiled. “If you’d like,” he said. Heat flared through Bond’s core. He wanted to use this invitation to get closer to Q, although his affection for Q seemed to transcend the need for a sexual release.

Oddly enough, this change in his interests didn’t bother Bond in the least. He didn’t need to shag Q to fulfil his need to comfort him. But he wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity either. He was still concerned about Q’s dilemma with MI6 and how Q’s favourite professor got involved in Q’s email.

When the dishes were done, Bond followed Q into the living room, bringing their wine glasses with him. It felt awkward, but Bond swallowed down his nerves and tried to act natural. He sat in the corner of the sofa, as he had earlier with Q. He undid the second button of his white dress shirt, making himself comfortable in his own home. 

“Come on, then,” Bond said when Q hesitated in front of the sofa. He reached for Q’s hand and linked their fingers together.

Q closed his eyes and looked at the floor. “You have to admit, it’s a bit odd,” Q said.

“What?” Bond asked. “That you’re welcome to cuddle with me on the sofa?”

Q blushed. “I always thought of you as some kind of sex-crazed Casanova,” Q said. “Your reputation precedes you at MI6.”

Bond had always thought his skill as a lover was something to be lauded. But now, the way Q described it, his reputation felt like something to be embarrassed about. He didn’t want Q to think that his only goal for the evening was to get Q into his bed.

“Casanova… hmmm? There’s no one by that name here tonight,” Bond said. He patted the sofa cushion next to him and beckoned Q to sit. “Only James.”

“James,” Q said. Q bit his bottom lip, but apparently the nervous action gave him the fortitude to move forward. He sat on the sofa beside Bond.

Bond’s arm instinctively went around Q. What tension Q held in his shoulders flowed from him and disappeared into the comfort of the sofa and the warmth of Bond’s embrace.

Bond wanted desperately to kiss Q again. Instead, he speared his fingers through Q’s hair and massaged Q’s scalp with his fingertips. Q soon relaxed into the touch and laid his head on Bond’s shoulder.

“I think I like this, _James,”_ Q said, turning so he faced Bond.

“I know I like it,” Bond said, not wanting to push. He let one hand slide down Q’s arm, holding him in place while the fingers of his other hand continued to trace soothing patterns in Q’s hair.

“I have some things that I need to tell you about Ahmadali Tabatabati,” Q said.

“Your professor?” Bond asked, not a real question, but a confirmation that they were on the same page.

Q took a deep breath. “Mmmm….” Q hummed, nodding his head.

“Go ahead,” Bond said. “I’ll try to be a good listener.” He sensed from Q’s preamble that the news wouldn’t be good.

Q turned his face away from Bond’s, but Bond didn’t stop the movements of his fingers in Q’s hair, his arm around Q, supporting him with gentle pressure that hopefully kept Q feeling safe and secure.

Bond didn’t dare let his mind race to speculate what Q wanted to tell him. He let Q meet him on his own terms and not the terms that were set by Bond’s _interrogation mode._

Q remained quiet for what seemed like a very long time.

“He wasn’t only my professor,” Q said.

Being a secret agent, Bond had already guessed that.

“I was in my second year at MIT,” Q said.

“The year your parents died,” Bond said, remembering, helping Q along as he shared his sad tale.

“I was young,” Q said. “You might even say I was naïve.”

“You were,” Bond said. It wasn’t difficult for him to envision Q, only twenty years old, a brilliant student in one of the most highly-regarded universities in the world.

“I was under a lot of stress from my classes, my grief over my parents, everything escalated,” Q said, his voice a whisper. “I needed help… and Professor Morgan was there.”

“He helped you through a difficult time,” Bond said. There was no harm in that. Bond hoped that Morgan served as a father figure to young Q, but it was probably too much to hope that the relationship ended there.

“I was so stupid,” Q said, looking at Bond.

“I doubt that,” Bond said. “Naïve maybe, but never stupid.”

Q relaxed and let his head fall to Bond’s shoulder again. Bond loved the warm weight of Q in his arms. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect him. He forced himself to refrain from making comments about Q’s story that might make him stop sharing what he clearly needed to get out in the open.

“One day I went to his office for a meeting after class,” Q said with a sigh. “I didn’t know he had designs on me then. I don’t know what I thought… like I said—I was young.”

“He should have known what he was doing was wrong,” Bond said. It was easy to imagine Q as a young undergrad. Brilliant and geeky, with the shaky confidence of a young colt.

“He wasn’t _that_ much older than me,” Q said with a snort.

“Maybe not illegal then, but definitely unethical,” Bond said.

“I know,” Q said. “I’m not trying to shirk my own responsibility for what happened.”

“No, of course not,” Bond said in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “That’s not your style.”

“You believe that,” Q said with a nod of confidence. “I’ve always tried to have some modicum of integrity.”

“Always, Q,” Bond said. “You should know that I hold you in the highest esteem because of the way I stood by you today with Mallory and Moneypenny and Tanner. I’d never doubt your integrity.”

And because the moment seemed to allow it, Bond leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Q’s forehead.

Q gave a little smile, telling Bond that his affection was not unwanted.

“I wasn’t even sure if I liked boys back then,” Q said. His fingers found the rolled-up cuff of Bond’s sleeve. He massaged the fabric back and forth between the pinch of his thumb and his forefinger. “I thought it was just a weird phase I was going through.”

“Had you dated girls in uni?” Bond asked.

“Yes,” Q said, the colour rising on his cheeks. “It was difficult being far away from home for the first time, and I didn’t want to disappoint my parents by telling them I was gay.”

“You don’t think they already knew?” Bond asked. He didn’t see how they couldn’t have known if they lived with Q and raised him to adulthood. Besides, having a son like Q could hardly be a disappointment, even if he was gay. 

Q shook his head rapidly. “I did a pretty good job of keeping it hidden,” Q said. “I think they believed that was a dedicated student without any time to get mixed up with drugs and sex and other collegiate enticements.”

Bond kissed Q again. He felt sorry that Q’s parents never got to know Q as himself. He felt bad for Q, who forced himself to date girls in order to keep his homosexuality hidden from the people who should have supported him the most.

“So what happened in Professor Morgan’s office?” Bond asked. He remembered his days at Eton, when sleeping with a teacher was considered the ultimate badge of honour. He thought differently when it came to Trevor taking advantage of Q.

“Well, let’s just say that none of the girls I dated had ever touched me like that before,” Q said, remembering. He buried his face in Bond’s chest.

Bond ignored the double-standard. He wanted to kill Morgan for what he took from Q. It sounded as if he waited to strike when Q was most vulnerable. Young, innocent Q, trying to do well in school, the pressure of classes, his parents’ death. It wasn’t much different from how Bond would treat a mark. Morgan had undoubtedly overstepped his bounds by using his professorial title and MIT prestige to take advantage of Q. And now the professor had converted to Islam and hacked Q’s email. “I’ll kill the bastard for you,” Bond said.

“Thank you,” Q whispered, looking up at Bond. “I don’t know if that’s necessary right now.”

“But it might be?” Bond asked hopefully.

“When Trevor came back from one of his trips, he wanted me to go back to Saudi Arabia to live with him,” Q said. “He had taught himself Arabic. He changed his name. He wanted me to convert to Islam like he had done in the previous year.”

“That’s a lot to ask of anyone, no matter what their relationship,” Bond said.

“True, but like I said, we were very close,” Q said. He stopped playing with the fabric of Bond’s cuff.

“You were in love with him?” Bond asked.

Q sighed. “I was young,” he said. “It was the first time I felt that way about someone. I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do.”

“What did you do?” Bond asked.

“Trevor had started a consulting business in Riyadh and he wanted me to partner with him—a cyber-security operation. I was working on my PhD dissertation by then, and he wanted to use my skills and research to help the connections he had made,” Q said, he twined his fingers together and fidgeted with them. “In hindsight, I should have known it involved terrorism. But even it hadn’t involve terrorism, it still seemed like there wasn’t much in the arrangement for me.”

Copernicus strolled into the room and leapt onto the sofa. He settled on Q’s lap.

“You respected him, but you thought that he was trying to take advantage of you?” Bond asked, reaching over to rub his palm over the friendly cat’s head.

“I broke it off with him,” Q said. “He didn’t take it well.”

Bond let his hand find Q’s fidgety fingers. He linked their fingers together, hoping to show that he supported Q, no matter what mistakes he made when he was a young and impressionable uni student. At least Q had the sense to end the relationship with this jerk when he had the chance.

“Did he stalk you?” Bond asked.

“Worse,” Q said, his eyes flickering with the memory. “He stole all my research and used it himself for his cyber-security scheme, a front for terrorism, Al-Qaeda, and worse.”

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Bond said, tightening his hold on Q to make him feel less fragile, less alone. “So he hacked you?”

Q snorted. “That’s the worst part,” he said. “He didn’t need to hack me. We lived together. We were lovers. We hadn’t even considered _not_ sharing our passwords with each other.”

Bond shook his head. He felt so bad for Q. No wonder he never trusted anyone. No wonder he was so good at deflecting Bond’s advances when he’d try to pick him up with a cheesy line back at MI6. Bond must have always kept Q on edge. He was glad that they might be past that now.

“I was gutted,” Q said. “I had to start my research over again. I had to choose a different topic for my PhD dissertation. When I think of the years I had wasted… it was my life’s work at the time.”

“It must have devastated you,” Bond said.

“He turned my research into a successful business,” Q said. “And he still tried to lure me into working for him after I told him we were finished.”

“He kept in contact with you?” Bond asked.

“I had to get a restraining order,” Q said, cringing.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Bond said. He caressed Q’s wrist with the pad of his thumb.

Q shook his head and sighed. “Me too,” he said.

“But you did the right thing,” Bond said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

Q nodded. “That’s why I ignored his emails to me.”

“Did he email you recently?” Bond asked.

“About six months ago, when the SPECTRE crisis was happening,” Q said. “He pleaded with me to work with him again.”

“And did you reply to this email?” Bond asked.

“No,” Q said. “I just deleted and blocked him. I was honestly surprised that he contacted me again. I thought I had left all of that in the past.”

“You did,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “You’re very brave to have thwarted his attempts to get you to do something when your heart wasn’t in it.”

“I still feel like a victim because he had made me believe I was in love with him,” Q said.

“You were hurt,” Bond said. “You may have lost some of yourself to him, but you recognised when he expected more from you than you could give, and you ended it. That’s not characteristic of a victim.”

“I won’t be a victim again,” Q said, looking at their hands where they met.

“No, you’re a bit older and much wiser now,” Bond said.

“Vulnerability doesn’t require youth, Bond,” Q said.

Bond shook his head. “You’re right,” he said.

“I’m still wary around jerks like him,” Q said.

Bond didn’t know what to say. Odds were good that, in similar circumstances, Bond would have treated Q in the same way that Trevor had. Bond had treated people that way for the entire time that he worked as a double-oh agent. He barely registered the fact that he hurt people along the way when he used them in his quest to get information that would be useful to MI6. Yet, when he recognized Trevor treating Q the same way Bond treated so many women, he became infuriated on Q’s behalf.

Q deserved so much better than what Trevor offered him. It made Bond sick.

“So what should we do now?” Bond asked.

“The information from Moneypenny… she’s sure it was him?” Q asked.

“Yes, and she’s relying on me to take care of you,” Bond said, “so the first thing we must do is keep you safe.”

“I feel quite safe here,” Q said. He moulded himself into Bond’s embrace as if to prove that he accepted Bond’s comfort for all it was worth.

“Good,” Bond said, appreciating Q’s hard-won trust in him. He wrapped Q more securely in his arms. “Now, why would Trevor hack your email and send messages to terror organizations?” he asked.

“To hurt me, by discrediting me—he was like that,” Q said. “Narcissistic. He always wanted to control me. I had lost my parents. I had no friends. I looked up to him and relied on him for not only academic help, but for my main source of interpersonal communication.”

“Spoken like a nerd,” Bond said, kissing the top of Q’s head. “You break things down into scientific terms when the emotional side of things get to be too much for you to express.”

“Either that, or I just stop talking. That way, I feel like I keep control over such things,” Q said. “I’m sorry that it’s such a problem. I learned the hard way what it is to fall in love—to believe what someone tells you, when they’re only lying to you for their own purposes.”

“You’re wise to be wary,” Bond said. “I don’t blame you for protecting yourself.” After learning about Morgan, Bond committed himself to not pressure Q for more than he was ready to give. The fact that he wanted to drag Q into the bedroom and ravish him from the top of his head to the wiggly toes that he hid beneath his colourful socks hardly mattered now.

“So what’s next?” Q asked.

“I need to talk to Tanner tomorrow,” Bond said. “I want to see if he found any information from his contacts in the Secretary of State’s office.”

“At least we know who’s responsible for the emails and my job loss now,” Q said.

“But, why?” Bond asked. “He must want something, and I’m not going to let him get to you.”

“My hero,” Q said with a laugh.

“You’re much different than the damsels in distress that I’m used to rescuing,” Bond said.

“I’m no damsel, for one thing,” Q said. After a beat, Q leaned forward and kissed Bond. 

No, Q was indeed no damsel. Bond closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Q’s lips, warm and silky against his own. It was enough to seal their emotional connection without turning sexual. Bond fought with himself about the wisdom of pulling away.

“After I speak to Tanner,” Bond said, when his lips were no longer occupied, “I’m going to take a ride around the warehouse zone at Canary Wharf where that mobile pinged. I’ll ask around and try to find out who wants your house watched.”

“You think they’re connected?” Q asked. “The people watching my house, Trevor and his emails, my credit card, my Oyster card…. are they all being tampered with by the same person?”

“I’m fairly sure of it,” Bond said.

“I’m worried,” Q said. “I thought I put all this behind me.”

“It will be all right,” Bond said. “I’m going to take care of it. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Q said with a yawn.

Bond was sorry to see that one man had the capability to cause such upheaval in Q’s life. 

“Tired?” Bond asked.

“Mmmm,” Q murmured. “And the wine… it makes me feel fuzzy.” 

“Come on,” Bond said, nudging Q so he sat up straight. Bond’s feet found the floor. He stood and stretched, his shirt coming mostly untucked from his trousers.

Q yawned and gently lifted Copernicus from his lap. He set the cat down on the opposite side of the sofa, but the cat was unwilling to stay where Q left him. He leapt to the floor and wandered off to find his food dish.

Bond reached for Q’s hand and hauled him to his feet.

“Bring your comfort blanket,” Bond said.

Q looked toward the arm of the sofa where his duvet lay. He grabbed it and pulled it off the sofa without bothering to ask where he was bringing it.

~

Bond agreed to meet Tanner for brunch in Sloane Square.

He left Q enjoying his tea in the living room. Bond had encouraged Q to commandeer his flatscreen so he’d have more visual real estate for his investigation. A tangle of wiring lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Q sat with needle-nosed pliers in hand as he configured the telly to serve as a second visual monitor to his laptop.

“Tell Tanner that I said _hello_ ,” Q said, twisting the wiring around a connection. “And make sure he knows how much I appreciate his help.”

“I will,” Bond said as he prepared to head out the door.

Q had already spoken directly to Moneypenny this morning through an old mobile Bond had found in his bottomless junk drawer. Q had made the mobile operational again and, although it wasn’t by any means a state-of-the-art device, it was functional enough so Q could communicate anonymously with the world outside Bond’s flat.

Moneypenny had relayed to Q the information she hacked from the PM’s office. While Bond was with Tanner, Q could sort through Ahmadali Tabatabati’s communications that flowed through Q’s compromised MIT email account. He might be able to build a case to refute the emails that raised suspicion in the Secretary of State’s office. With a great deal of luck, he’d be able to clear his name and get his job back as Quartermaster. Bond was glad Q could rely on his friends’ help more than he could the presence of sheer luck.

“I feel terrible that they’re working a Saturday on my behalf,” Q said, looking up from the construction project he had going on Bond’s living room floor.

Q hadn’t showered yet and his hair stood up in the odd angles of bedhead that made him look even more adorable. 

“You’d do the same for them,” Bond said, straightening his tie.

“I would,” Q agreed. He worked on twisting the wires together, his tongue sticking out between his ripe pink lips while he concentrated.

The night before, he and Bond had made a quick stop in the bathroom for teeth-brushing, before continuing on to Bond’s bedroom, Q dragging his duvet behind him. Bond wanted nothing more than to show Q that he was worthy of his trust. He’d never presume that Q wanted him sexually, although Q had proven that if he had a type, it was for an older more experienced lover.

Bond wondered what Psych would say about that.

Bond’s intentions had gone entirely unspoken. He hoped it was obvious to Q that he would be more comfortable in Bond’s king-sized bed than he would be on the lumpy old sofa. He wanted Q to have a restful sleep. He wanted Q to feel like he was at home. Although Bond’s home wasn’t nearly the showplace that Q had made his house at Putney Heath, it was more comfortable for Q being there.

Bond knew he was kidding himself when he toyed with the idea that Q might want an old dog like him, despite Q’s willingness to exchange a few kisses and lingering touches. Bond was as undeserving of a relationship with Q as Trevor had been.

But now that Q had told his story, Bond had something else to prove. Just because he was an agent with a reputation didn’t mean he couldn’t control himself around Q. It didn’t mean that he couldn’t offer comfort to Q when he was worried and scared. The night didn’t need to end in sex. Q meant more to him than a quick shag between friends.

In the bedroom, Bond had stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. It felt good to be nearly naked with Q, but he didn’t want to take what wasn’t freely given.

One of the cats had leapt on the bed in the dimness.

Bond turned away from Q, opting to slide under the covers, rather than watch Q remove his jumper and jeans. Like Bond, Q kept his t-shirt and boxers on. 

Bond found it amusing that the pyjamas Q spoke of at the first meeting were purely metaphoric.

“Is this all right?” Bond asked when Q settled under the covers, his own duvet spread over both of them.

“More comfortable than I expected,” Q said, taking his glasses off and leaving them on the bedside cabinet.

If they touched in the night, it was purely accidental.

Bond arrived at Colbert’s, a pricy French bistro that Tanner had selected as their meeting place. The Saturday brunch crowd had filled most of the tables, but Tanner had secured a comfortable corner for them to discuss Q.

The waiter brought coffee as soon as Bond took his place across from Tanner.

“How is he doing?” Tanner asked.

“He’ll be all right,” Bond said. He didn’t want to divulge too much about Q’s past relationship with Trevor, but Tanner had to know the basic facts if he was going to help clear Q’s name. “He has a good idea of who is responsible for this.”

“Moneypenny told me that she traced Q’s questionable email conversations to an Ahmadali Tabatabati,” Tanner said, pointing to his tablet on the table. “I’ve done some digging on him, but do you have any idea who he is to Q?”

“A university professor, London born, worked at MIT in the States,” Bond said, reluctantly adding, “he and Q were lovers.”

Tanner nearly spit out his café crème. “Our Q? With a MIT professor? How old is the guy?”

“Old enough to know better,” Bond said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Q broke it off, but not before Tabatabati left Q heartbroken and stole his research—which he turned into a successful business.”

“Arsehole,” Tanner said. “I suppose that explains why Q doesn’t date and why he’s devoted to his cats.”

“And why he’s so tough on security,” Bond said.

The waiter came to take their order. Bond had barely looked at the menu, so he took Tanner’s cue and ordered the omelette fromage with caramelised grapefruit on the side.

After the waiter left, Tanner continued, pointing to the information stored on his tablet, “This Tabatabati, he’s got quite a reputation in the Middle East. Arms trafficking, money laundering, cyber-crime. It looks like he’s the head of a major terrorism cell. He must be as much of a genius as Q to have avoided capture already. The CIA has been after him for years.”

“Do they know where he is now?” Bond asked.

“According to intelligence, he purchased a warehouse in East London six months ago,” Tanner said. “It could be for manufacturing, storage, just about anything.”

“That’s where the mobile call went from the thug who was watching Q’s house,” Bond said.

“It doesn’t seem like a coincidence,” Tanner said.

“What about our surveillance? Is anyone from MI5 watching Q’s house like Mallory suspected?” Bond asked.

“Not as far as any of my contacts knew,” Tanner said. “It seems unlikely that MI5 would be keeping tabs one of ours. They know we’re capable enough.”

“I think we can assume that the thugs watching Q’s house were working for Tabatabati,” Bond said.

“I don’t understand the connection with MI6,” Tanner said. “What could Tabatabati gain my ruining Q’s reputation?”

“And his credit,” Bond said.

“Do you think he’s trying to retaliate for something Q did?” Tanner asked.

“Your breakfast,” the waiter brought their dishes and set the plates before the men. “Can I get you anything else?”

“More coffee,” Bond said. “Please.”

“None for me,” Tanner said, holding his hand over his cup.

The waiter refreshed Bond’s cup and left their table.

Tanner sprinkled salt and pepper onto his omelette.

“Assuming MI5 isn’t watching Q,” Bond said, “that lets us point to Tabatabati as our only suspect.”

“What if this isn’t about retaliation? What if he’s trying to get Q to work for him?” Bond asked.

“If that’s his goal, his actions make no sense,” Tanner said.

“Think about it. He contacted Q six months ago, but Q deleted his messages and blocked him,” Bond said, tucking into his omelette.

“If he wants Q to work with him badly enough….” Tanner began.

“He’s trying to get him to communicate with him,” Bond said.

“By shutting off his relationship with MI6, hoping that Q will contact him and get him to stop,” Tanner said. “And that’s the other thing—no one seems to know exactly why the mandate to eliminate Q came down from the Secretary’s office. It seems like they’ve gone trigger happy. Since the bombings in Paris and Brussels, they’re terminating employment for anyone who so much as mentions a connection with ISIS.”

“Without any justification?” Bond asked.

“By order of the PM. Hammond’s up in arms over it,” Tanner said.

“He’d probably like to get his hands on Tabatabati,” Bond said. “If Q’s old professor is not quite as talented as Q, it wouldn’t surprise me if he needs Q’s brain for some part of his business plan.”

“And by isolating him, he hopes that Q will contact him because he has nowhere else to turn,” Tanner said.

Bond reached for his mobile and texted Q. “He’s got an old mobile of mine,” Bond said, “I’m just making sure he’s all right.”

Tanner nodded.

Bond sighed with relief when the text came in from Q.

_OK - finding good data on my new monitor ;-)_

“He’s fine,” Bond said, pocketing the mobile.

“What are we going to do next?” Tanner asked.

“I’m taking a ride over to Canary Wharf,” Bond said. “Someone is bound to know something about Tabatabati if that’s his new stomping grounds.”

“Do you want me to come along?” Tanner asked.

“Not necessary,” Bond said, remembering that he needed to pick up his laundry on the way. “Thanks for the information. Mallory can’t be too happy if you’re spending time on this project.”

“On the contrary,” Tanner said. “He’s really missing Q in Q-branch. The minions are having a hard time dealing with R. They blew up a laptop yesterday and accidentally started a fire at the gun range. I think Mallory would like to see Q back as much as the rest of us.”

“We’re one step closer, thanks to you,” Bond said.

“And Moneypenny,” Tanner said, although there was no need to remind Bond of the sacrifices Moneypenny was willing to make for Q and Bond both.

“Of course,” Bond said.

“There’s no need to say anything to Q about it,” Tanner said, “but it didn’t surprise me to learn that Mallory has put Moneypenny in charge of an internal investigation regarding what happened to Q.”

“You think he suspects that someone in MI6 helped Tabatabati?” Bond asked.

“Mallory is so angry about losing his Quartermaster, he’s leaving nothing to chance,” Tanner said.

They finished their breakfast and Bond and Tanner parted. Before they settled their bill, Bond ordered a bag of Armagnac Truffles to bring home to Q.

~

Bond swung by the dry cleaners and picked up the laundry he had left. A neatly-wrapped parcel of clean clothing sat on the passenger’s seat of the Aston Martin while Bond’s freshly-pressed suits dangled from a hook that Q had installed specifically for that purpose when he first modified the car. Q’s vehicle enhancements could be practical, as well as deadly.

Bond passed The Mall and stayed north of the river, admiring the city and the London Eye that rotated through the afternoon drizzle. Traffic was heavy for a Saturday, but it was the construction that slowed his journey the most. Stuck behind a line of cars near the Tower, he felt his mobile vibrate. He dispensed with texting Q back, and rang him instead.

“Hello,” Q said. “I didn’t mean to bother you if you were still with Tanner, but I have an address that I want you to check out when you’re at Canary Wharf.”

“I’ve left Tanner already and picked up the laundry,” Bond said. “What did you find?”

“It might be nothing, really,” Q said. “It looks like a warehouse of some sort, possibly under construction or renovation from the look of it on the CCTV.”

“Tanner told me one of his contacts discovered that Tabatabati recently purchased a warehouse. Sounds like it’s worth checking into?” Bond asked, defying traffic laws to pass a line of cars that drove too slow for his liking.

“It would seem,” Q said. “The address is 8 Heron Quay. You’ll take the A1206 onto Canary Wharf. Turn left onto Heron Quay. There’s a pair of buildings with a connecting causeway between them. Estate agent records show that Tabatabati bought them six months ago.”

“He’s been right under our noses the whole time,” Bond said.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Q said, “but it’s my nose he’s been under. This has nothing to do with you or MI6. It’s me that he’s after.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Q,” Bond said. “You’re as much a part of MI6 as I am. When this Tabatabati fellow targeted you, he targeted all of us.”

Q exhaled in exasperation.

Bond was sorry that Q felt so alone, but what more could Bond do to convince Q that they were in this together and he supported him in being free of Tabatabati for once and for all?

“I’m on the A1206 now,” Bond said. “Stay put and I’ll call you back if I find anything.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Q said.

Bond ended the call. “You’d better not be,” he said with a smile as he shifted into high gear and wove his way through traffic.

After twenty minutes of fighting the traffic through various congestion zones, Bond arrived at Heron Quay. The gentrified dockyards were rife with demolition and construction projects, but since it was the weekend, there were very few workers about.

The buildings at 8 Heron Quay looked just as Q had described. A pair of geometrically similar buildings four stories high faced each other. Their roofs sloped away at a steep angle. The profile of the twin structures looked like a church that someone had cropped the middle from, taking out its steeple. The top floor of each side of the building had a wall of glass where it faced its twin, but the remaining floors were windowless. The pair of buildings were connected by a lower central passageway which sought to make the building’s footprint one cohesive unit. The construction seemed to be nearly complete judging by the bright blue exterior and the orange trim that accentuated the odd shape of the building’s profile. A metal lattice of scaffolding crept up the far side, stopping short before reaching the lower edge of the roofline at the top of the third storey.

Bond parked the Aston Martin in a No Parking Zone and donned his black sunglasses. The shades always gave Bond an air of confidence, although they were entirely unnecessary in the damp and misty city where the sun rarely made an appearance. He thought about grabbing the umbrella, but the rain had tapered to a mist, so he decided he could do without it.

Bond stepped out of the car. His polished black leather shoes crunched the sand and grit of the construction site.

The wind brought a chill off the water. This was the place where the Thames grew deep and wide to form the Docklands that led to London’s early success as a city for trade and industry. The area had grown into a financial district now, although many warehouses remained and had been converted into office space for businesses, not all of them legal.

Bond approached the half-dozen men who wore hardhats at 8 Heron Quay.

“I’m here to see your foreman,” Bond said, stopping when the men noticed his arrival.

“He’s not on the site today,” one of the men said. He wore an orange safety vest with the name Caswell embroidered onto it in black thread.

“Some lucky bastards get the weekend off,” another man grumbled.

“Well, since he can’t help me, do you know if Mr. Tabatabati is around today?” Bond asked. There was no harm in fishing for information, no matter the pool of unsuspecting collaborators. Besides, the name Tabatabati rolled off his tongue and thinking of how Trevor treated Q made Bond want to kick some arse.

“He was here this morning, but he took off an hour or so ago,” Caswell said.

“Speaking of taking off, it’s time for us to go,” one of the workers said.

“You’re right,” Caswell said. “There’s nothing more we can do today anyway. Finish up what you’re working on and we’re out of here.”

“Thank you for your help,” Bond said. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

“No one’s supposed to be in here off-hours,” Caswell said, scratching his bearded chin. “But we’re leaving in a few, so who’s to know?”

“Thanks,” Bond said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Caswell said. He and the men began to pick up the equipment they were using. They heaved their tools into the back of a dump truck and prepared to leave. 

Bond walked to where the scaffolding rose skyward. The whole area around 8 Heron Quay seemed strangely deserted for a business. He followed the perimeter of the building where a concrete pathway led to the connecting passage to the building’s twin. There, he found a glass doorway where the freshly-painted trim felt tacky beneath his fingertips. He peered inside. The building looked vacant. No desk or chair or telephone system could be seen in what was presumably the reception area. Perhaps Tabatabati intended for it to be a storage facility alone, Bond mused.

Bond thought about calling Q to let him know what he found, but he was disappointed by the dearth of information he had found so far. He decided to explore further before he shared the lack of news with Q.

He walked through the muddy jobsite, following the exterior of the passageway that led to the second half of the building. Peering through the glass of its matching door afforded Bond no new information. Both halves of the building appeared to be vacant, although he couldn’t see far beyond the entrance inside.

Circling the building, Bond found a garage door that had been painted bright yellow. He looked up and down the exterior of the building, but found no entryway that had been haphazardly left open by one of the workers.

A train whistle blew and the light rail rolled past, making its way to the Heron Quays rail station. The grind of steel as the train braked made Bond shudder. It wasn’t often that he remembered the time Silva blew a hole in the tube so a wayward train could chase Bond nearly to his death. The post-trauma stress Bond suffered from his long years of double-oh service crept up on him at the most inopportune times. He dismissed it without incident this time, listening as the train rolled out of earshot.

Bond made his way back toward the car, stopping at the scaffolding before he reached the No Parking Zone. He looked up and down the construction lot and then turned his attention back to the building. If he could reach the top floor, he might be able to see inside the wall of windows. Maybe that would give him an idea of what Tabatabati was planning.

He pocketed his sunglasses and undid the button of his jacket. Reaching up, he grabbed the head-high rung of the scaffolding. In one swift movement, he swung himself upward. Hand over hand, he climbed from one level to the next, hoping the security guards who patrolled the Docklands wouldn’t order him down with their raised weapons.

The cold slick steel bit at Bond’s fingertips as he fought to hold on. The higher he climbed, the colder the steel became. The mist had coated each of Bond’s handholds. For each foot he gained in elevation, he slipped backwards a few inches. He gritted his teeth and put the thoughts of his cold aching fingers out of his mind.

He needed to find out what was inside the buildings. This expenditure of energy was for Q, the Quartermaster who had done so much for him during his tenure at MI6. No matter what Bond had asked of Q, he willingly obliged, risking his own job more times than Bond could count. The least Bond could do was to get a glimpse of what was inside this building.

Finally, Bond reached the top of the scaffolding where a wooden platform had been affixed. He rolled onto his back to catch his breath. His chest heaved with the exertion. He tucked his hands into his armpits, hoping to restore some of the warmth to his fingers. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t been seen scaling the building.

When he recovered, Bond scoped out the condition of the steeply sloping roof. All would have been for naught if he slipped and fell to the pavement below. To his surprise, the roof was comprised of some kind of composite tile instead of the slippery wet metal that he anticipated. He crept like a cat along the roofline, ascending to the apex. The wind came up from the Thames and sent Bond’s tie flapping.

When he could go no further, Bond lay flat on his stomach and peered over the edge. What he wouldn’t have given for a periscope at that moment. The inside of the building gave the appearance of a warehouse from this angle. Although no lights had been turned on inside the building, there was enough light from the grey sky to see that the building was essentially a cavernous hollow shell. It hadn’t even been wired yet, if the miles of cables and conduit that hung from the ceiling indicated the building’s level of completion. From the rooftop to the floor below was a distance of fifty feet or more. The glass windows at the top level let in some light, but not nearly enough for Bond’s liking.

Satisfied that there was no more to see, Bond crept along the roof until his feet found the scaffolding platform again. He paused and observed the Docklands from this vantage point. The sky roiled in a dozen shades of grey. Anticipating the cold steel handholds, Bond warmed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. There were no construction crew members in sight.

Bond made the agonizing journey down the scaffolding to the solid ground. He was grateful that the descent was faster than the climb because of the slick steel and the force of gravity. When his feet finally hit the ground, he brushed himself off and buttoned his jacket.

There was nothing to see here. But Tabatabati would be back sometime, and Bond needed to plan how he would confront him.

As the Aston Martin roared to life, Bond realised that he had worked up an appetite climbing the scaffolding. It was late afternoon by the time he drove out of the Docklands of Canary Wharf. Usually, Bond would have stopped at one of his favourite haunts for a bite to eat, but he didn’t need the bag of truffles on the console to remind him that he had someone waiting at home for him.

He thought about calling Q to tell him about the warehouse, but he decided against it since nothing significant had been found. He’d be home in a half-hour, and Q was bound to be hungry too. As the traffic came to a stop ahead of him, Bond conducted a mental review of the food he had brought home the day before.

Perhaps he’d prepare a flank steak, broiled and sliced thin, served with fresh asparagus. Or maybe grilled salmon with a sweet pea-studded risotto. Bond could always ask Q what he would like to eat, although he wondered what kind of answer he would get. From the looks of him, with his skinny arms and bony knees, Q subsisted on Earl Grey alone.

Bond liked cooking for others, although he seldom got the opportunity. He rarely brought a conquest back to his flat and almost never spent the time to prepare a meal after he gained the information his job required of him. Cooking for Q was especially rewarding, since he seemed appreciative of Bond’s culinary skills, as if he expected nothing more than a cheese toastie.

The traffic rolled along slowly, past the Thames and its many bridges as Bond made his way home. It had become more of a home in just a few days with Q there.

Bond grinned and wondered what it would be like to make Q one of his signature martinis. Q became quite talkative and forthcoming from the wine they drank the previous evening. A mere mouthful of whisky made him fuzzy the night before that. Q wasn’t kidding when he told Bond that he got drunk easily.

Bond took advantage of an opening in the line of traffic. He darted through and passed three vehicles in the process.

He wondered if he could convince Q to drink a martini. It might help him put his cares aside for a little while, at least. Bond decided that Q would be silly and uninhibited. Maybe he’d try flirting with Bond—maybe he’d want to do more than steal kisses from him as they lay curled together on the sofa.

Bond sped ahead, running a red light before squeezing into the lane of moving cars.

Bond could name a hundred things he wanted to do to Q, if given the opportunity. But it would be quite wrong to take advantage of Q while he was a bit drunk. Bond was certain that he would stop before things went too far. He valued his friendship with Q too much to take advantage of his inebriation.

The line of cars in front of Bond suddenly came to a complete stop.

Bond tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the traffic to move again. He mused at his own honesty. Normally, he’d be keen to fuck anything that moved. But this was Q. His Q. He had always suspected that Q was gay, but now that Q had confirmed it, Bond needed to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t want to ruin whatever friendship that had been formed during Q’s ordeal. It would be best if he could get Q to sleep safely every night, and with his virtue intact… well, mostly intact.

The traffic began moving again. Bond was nearly home.

It was time to put aside all thoughts of Q tracing a finger along Bond’s lips and begging him to _“ fuck me like one of those infamous Bond girls that you’ve fucked on your missions.”_

Bond shivered as he turned onto Kensington Park Road.

It was time to stop dreaming of Q’s adorable grin while he spewed filthy words about what he wanted to do to Bond. Without the glasses, Q was strikingly handsome. Hazy green eyes, flecked with gold in the morning light, a button nose, and broody eyebrows, and of course his gorgeous mouth. His lips made Bond think all kinds of things that would make it impossible to get out of the Aston Martin without sporting an embarrassing erection.

Bond pulled out his remote to open the garage, but his eyes caught the shattered plastic that littered the pavement outside his garage door.

He left the Aston Martin running and stepped out of the car to investigate.

The mobile Q had resurrected from Bond’s junk drawer lay smashed to pieces on the concrete.

Bond ran inside the flat.

Q was gone.

~


	5. Chapter 5

“Q?” Bond called as he searched the rooms of his flat.

This couldn’t be. Everything appeared to be unchanged from when Bond left in the morning. The furniture was in the exact same position where Q had moved it when he rearranged things the previous day.

Bond searched the bedroom, in the wardrobe, under the bed. He cringed when he looked inside the trunk he had promised Q for his clothes, but fortunately, Q wasn’t inside.

“Q,” he moaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

In the ruckus, Galileo scampered under the bed. Copernicus mewed and pleaded to be petted.

“What went on here?” Bond asked the cat.

But Copernicus had no answer.

With his weapon drawn, Bond stood on his balcony, overlooking Stanley Crescent. If Q were kidnapped, the kidnappers would long be gone by now. He was certain that Tabatabati was responsible for this, but there was no telling how many enemy operatives might see Q’s skills and intelligence as weapons that they could use for their own purposes.

Bond took his mobile from his pocket and dialled Q’s number. It couldn’t hurt to hope.

“Please,” Bond whispered, but the call went to voicemail.

He shoved his mobile back into his pocket and surveyed the living room.

“What were you doing here?” Bond asked, turning on the telly that was attached to Q’s laptop by a HDMI cable.

Bond’s eyes scanned the images of data that ran across the screen. There were images of the warehouse he had visited earlier, with aerial shots of the Docklands. Bond scrolled through the images that Q had pulled up on the screen. There didn’t seem to be any new information. Bond glared at the photograph of Ahmadali Tabatabati as if he could provide some answers.

Bond winced when he thought about Q trying to fight off an attacker. He’d be easily defeated in a physical fight. Yet here Bond had left him, unarmed and unguarded while someone had made it obvious that they were out to get Q.

“Why, Q?” Bond asked. “Give me a clue. Why did you shut off the telly and leave your laptop connected to it?”

Bond groaned in frustration when he finally understood that Q hadn’t been kidnapped from inside the flat. Everything was in place, exactly as Bond had left it. No signs of a break-in or a struggle. 

Bond should never have been so careless in leaving Q alone. He knew how upset Q was about the ordeal with Tabatabati and MI6. Perhaps Q left to settle matters on his own, but someone got to him as soon as he set foot outside.

Bond rang Tanner, in hopes that he could help.

“Bond?” Tanner said. “What news do you have? Are you at the warehouse?”

“I went to the warehouse, but when I got back to my flat, Q was gone,” Bond said.

“Gone?” Tanner asked, taking some time to process the urgency in Bond’s voice. “What happened? Did he leave any indication about where he was headed?”

“He left a broken mobile and a Google search for the warehouse. It had to be Tabatabati, or his men,” Bond said as he pushed his old mail around on the countertop, checking for a note or a clue that Q had left behind. “I never should have left him here alone.”

“What’s done is done,” Tanner said. “What are you going to do next?”

Bond went to the stairs.

“I’m heading back to the warehouse now,” Bond said. “It may be a guess, but I’m willing to bet that they’ve taken Q there.”

“You think it’s Tabatabati,” Tanner said.

“He’s our best lead at the moment,” Bond said.

“What can I do?” Tanner asked.

“I don’t suppose MI6 would be willing to help, since they cut Q from his Quartermaster position,” Bond said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tanner said. “Let me hang up, and I’ll put a call in to Mallory.”

Bond descended the stairs two at a time. He jumped into the Aston Martin and pulled out of the garage, the fresh laundry and truffles mocking him from the passenger’s seat. Q’s smashed mobile crunched under the wheels as Bond sped toward Westbourne Grove.

When Bond reached the A40, he plugged his mobile into the port and said, “Call Moneypenny.”

“James,” Moneypenny answered before the ring. Bond was fairly sure that Tanner had already pulled her into the conversation in the time it took Bond to get from his driveway to the main road. She rarely called him by his first name, except in times of extreme emotion.

“I’m sorry your boffin bestie is missing,” Bond said.

“Tanner just told me. I know you’ll bring him back,” Moneypenny said.

“In the meantime, you can help Tanner,” Bond said.

“I put him through to Mallory a moment ago. Just because you didn’t invite me to your little boys’ club brunch, doesn’t mean that I’ve been left out of the loop entirely,” Moneypenny said.

Bond was grateful that Tanner had caught Moneypenny up on their conversation. Q couldn’t have too many allies if he wanted his job back, but it certainly helped to have skilled agents on his side in the event of enemy fire.

“What do you need?” Moneypenny asked.

“When you see Mallory,” Bond said. “Let him know what you found out about Ahmadali Tabatabati. You know that’s who hacked Q’s accounts. I think he’s trying to flush Q out so he’ll go to him for help.”

“What kind of help could Q possibly hope to get from him?”

“I’m not exactly sure yet,” Bond said.

If Tabatabati had cut off Q’s accounts, in hopes that Q would seek him out to get his identity reinstated, he’d want to be paid off. Perhaps the payment he had in mind was for Q to provide technical skills to Tabatabati’s terror network. Bond hoped it was as simple as that. He wasn’t ready to face his concern that Tabatabati may want Q for reasons that were more romantic than hacking some data. He’d be damned if this arsehole thought he was going to woo Q into getting back together with him.

“Mallory has us working on an internal investigation this weekend. I don’t know how available he’s going to be,” Moneypenny said. “I wouldn’t expect him to go all out to rescue Q since he’s been discredited.”

“Maybe not,” Bond said. This was accurate, but disappointing.

“But if it involves catching one of the biggest arms traffickers to the Middle East, I’m sure I can get him to reconsider,” Moneypenny said.

“That’s my girl,” Bond said.

Their call ended when Bond crossed Edgeware Road to the A501. He hoped he’d have better luck with the traffic here than he did on the city road earlier.

He drove as fast as the traffic would allow. Bond gripped the steering wheel tightly, feeling a connection to Q there in the moulded leather that Q had touched.

The rain spit down when Bond turned onto Great Eastern Street toward Whitechapel. He sat in traffic again on the A13, getting closer to the Docklands. He turned the heater on to warm his hands when he thought about climbing the wet scaffolding again.

Although he tried to remain cool and collected, Bond pounded the steering wheel with an angry fist when the traffic ground to a halt.

He promised himself that if he got Q out of this mess, he would take him away to someplace warm. Perhaps the Maldives or Bora Bora. He would slather Q’s back with sunscreen and watch him wade in the surf, his skinny legs sticking out of his board shorts, the kind that young men like Q wore nowadays.

It was a calming thought.

When the traffic began to move again, Bond lost himself in the hypothetical holiday with Q. He doubted Q ever went anyplace warm when he had time off. He was afraid of flying because of what happened to his parents. Poor boy. At least he was smart enough to avoid such stress.

However, there was that trip to Austria last year when Q showed up at the ski resort looking for Bond.

What would make Q board a plane when he had such an aversion to flying?

It could only have been Bond.

There was nothing Q wouldn’t do for him.

And Bond wanted to be sure that Q wouldn’t regret it.

The warehouse district came into view as Bond merged with traffic toward the Rotherhithe Tunnel. He cursed at the drivers. Where were all these people going on a Saturday night? Bond slumped low in the driver’s seat when he realised the reason. They were out to have a good time. Unlike Bond, these people had lives to lead that didn’t involve espionage or a license to kill.

Bond pulled up to 8 Heron Quay. From inside, bright lights illuminated the top floor of the warehouse. Although he had only left this spot a little more than an hour ago, the sky had grown darker since and the wind whipped off the Thames. There were no cars parked in the No Parking Zone where he had left the Aston Martin earlier, but fresh tracks led across the construction site. The wheels of more than one vehicle left deep grooves in the sand and mud.

Bond drew his gun, ready to fire. He ran to the building, keeping his profile as low as possible. He pressed his back against the damp blue walls of the warehouse. Skirting the building, Bond stayed as quiet as he could, his shoes leaving traces of his presence in the rain-soaked dust of the concrete walkway.

He thought about Q. He wondered if Q was hurt or scared. He wondered if he had even been brought here alive.

Bond scoffed at his own thoughts. Of course Q was alive. He’d be worthless to Tabatabati if he were dead.

Bond reached the central connecting causeway where he had peered into a reception area earlier in the day. The side of the building with the scaffolding was quiet, but Bond heard some activity coming from the second half of the building, the one where no scaffolding allowed him access.

The lights shined from the top story of the building, casting long shadows along the wet ground.

Taking care to not be seen, Bond made his way to the rear of the building, facing the Thames. The stench of diesel fuel and industrial river traffic assaulted his nostrils. Here, on the embankment, a pair of vehicles sat. Bond pressed his hand to their bonnets and felt that they were still warm. His anger grew when he realised the vehicles could have passed him earlier, with Q inside, as Bond had left the warehouse for home. Although there was nothing he could have done to change what happened, he still felt a pang of guilt that Q could be injured somewhere and he was unable to stop it.

Bond silently listened for activity in the warehouse. The clanging bell of a ferry pierced the air. The ship motored downstream, disturbing the rain-splotched river. Bond never heard the footsteps that approached him from behind, stepping in time with the ferry bell’s clanging ring. By the time Bond felt the pistol strike the back of his head, it was too late.

~

Bond dreamed.

The heat from the roaring fire warmed his face, his hands, his feet. He took a sip of mulled cider and let the sweet tang of the liquid roll down his throat, warming him from the inside out.

He stretched his legs out in front of him on the plush rug. Fingers touched his shoulder and he turned his head to see Q. His smile lit up the room more than any flame in the hearth, more than the bright sun as it broke through the clouds over the vale. Reaching up with one hand, he took Q’s fingers and brought them to his lips.

Q let Bond take his hand. His hair fell into his pretty green eyes. He looked as young as ever. He hadn’t aged a day since they first met in the National Gallery. He looked intelligent, as always, and his glasses somehow made him seem smarter—as if there was ever any doubt that he was a nerd. He pinched the bow of his glasses and pulled them more securely onto his nose, a habit that Bond knew he performed every waking hour of his day.

“Q?” Bond asked.

“Double-oh Seven,” Q said.

Q laid a hand on Bond’s shoulder and lowered himself to the rug, sidling up to Bond, warm and cosy.

The fire crackled. Q wrapped an arm around Bond’s shoulders and drew him nearer. Bond exhaled slowly feeling the warm weight of Q at his side.

Bond rested his head on Q’s chest. His jumper was soft to the touch, green and grey like the one he wore when he first came to Bond’s flat all those years ago. Bond could feel Q’s heartbeat, steady and solid beneath his clothes.

Bond rubbed his forehead against Q’s cheek, like a giant cat, while they sat together enjoying the fire.

Q blinked his eyes closed.

Bond pursed his lips and inched forward to press a kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth.

That got Q’s attention. He turned his gaze to Bond.

“You need to wake up, Bond,” Q said.

Bond nuzzled Q’s neck. He let his lips skim over Q’s jawline. His eyelashes left butterfly kisses on Q’s pale skin, the colour high on his cheeks from the heat of the fire.

Q’s hands were cold, as if he just came in from outside. Bond remembered the chill of the metal scaffolding that painfully froze his own fingers. Bond wanted so badly to warm Q’s fingers for him, so he didn’t have to be cold.

Outside, the snow fell in fat flakes against the windows. The winds howled across the munros, making Bond glad for the heat of the fire.

He shifted his position and pulled Q into his lap. Q went along with the movement and laughed at him, his eyes dancing in the firelight.

Q found Bond’s glass of cider and brought it to his lips, sipping it leisurely. Bond watched Q’s Adam’s apple as he drank. He stroked at it with a finger until Q stopped sipping his drink, and offered it to Bond instead.

Bond didn’t want the sweet liquid. He had a craving for a different taste entirely. He put the glass aside and bracketed Q’s face in his hands, bringing their lips together. This is what it felt like to be home.

Bond’s eyes flickered open and he could swear that he saw his childhood home. The stone walls and the ornate light fixtures warded off the darkness of the highland nights.

Bond looked around and took in his surroundings. He hoped that Kincade would be there soon to stoke their fire. Maybe he would take them target shooting in the morning. Q would surprise Kincade, even more than Bond had when he returned to Skyfall. Bond would warn Kincade to pay no mind to Q’s scrawny arms or the fact that he weighed less than most of the ewes that grazed the hillside. Q was a good shot. Better than most of the double-ohs, since he tested every weapon at the MI6 shooting range before he ever considered letting them leave MI6 with an agent. Q was stronger than he looked.

If you weren’t a good shot, Q could teach you a thing or two.

“Q?” Bond asked. “You’ll show Kincade how it’s done, won’t you?”

Bond’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Bond?” Q said again. “You need to wake up now.”

Q brushed his thumb across Bond’s cheek, waking him from his dream.

“Q?” Bond asked. He scanned Q’s face. One eye was swollen nearly shut and there was an ugly bruise on the side of his forehead. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

“Q, what have they done to you?” Bond asked, his feet scrambling for purchase on the concrete floor. He didn’t get very far, his ankles held back by a pair of shackles that chained him to the wall. He lifted his hand to Q’s head, but hesitated touching what must be a painful injury.

“I may be a good shot, but if we get out of this one,” Q said, “perhaps you should consider teaching me some of your hand-to-hand combat techniques.”

As soon as he remembered the blow he suffered from the butt of his captor’s gun, Bond’s head ached. “Don’t be ridiculous, Q,” he said. “You’re a lover, not a fighter.”

Q smiled, although Bond could see the pain behind his eyes.

“Let me look at you,” Bond said.

“I’m so sorry,” Q said, as if all of this was his fault.

“No, no,” Bond said, trying to soothe him, but he stopped talking when he noticed Q was no longer wearing the grey and green jumper that he wore in Bond’s dream. No, the colours were the same, but he wore a jacket, not a warm and fuzzy jumper. Beneath the mottled grey and green camouflage, explosives were held in place by strips of duct-tape that wrapped around Q’s torso and stuck to the tender skin of his chest.

“Q,” Bond said, his voice steady.

“Bond?” Q asked.

“That’s the ugliest jumper I’ve seen you wear yet.”

Q shook his head, whispering, “I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“What happened?” Bond asked.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Q said, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. “I don’t know why I thought it would be safe to leave the flat. It was only supposed to be for a minute.”

Bond wanted to scold him, but he had the presence of mind to know that it would make no difference. Besides, it was obvious that Q felt bad enough about his error in judgement anyway. “It’s too late to be sorry,” Bond said, shaking his head. “What happened?”

Q licked at the blood on his lips. “I called Emily to let her know what was going on,” Q said. “I was concerned about my savings. The credit card was one thing, my savings are quite another. If Trevor cleaned out my bank account, I’d have nothing to live on. I’d have to start all over after losing everything. I was frantic. It was like the time when Trevor stole my work, all over again. I thought if I could get to the bank and arrange a transfer to Emily, everything would be all right. I’m sorry, I was so stupid and selfish. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Q,” Bond said. He caught Q’s fingertips with his own. With both hands, he tugged Q closer, warming Q’s hand between his, “You needed to look out for yourself.”

“I wish I had left you a note, but I was only leaving for a minute to go to the NatWest on the corner,” Q said. “They grabbed me as soon as I left the flat.”

“Where are we?” Bond asked, noticing his surroundings for the first time.

They sat on the floor of a warehouse. The concrete floor was uncomfortable and cold beneath Bond’s arse. Overhead lighting poured down on them, illuminating the walls in an industrial glare. Cables fell from the ceiling. Each length was coated in a rubberized white sheath.

The warehouse smelled of fresh paint and solder smoke.

“I think we’re at the warehouse, remember? Heron Quay,” Q said.

“Of course,” Bond said.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Q said. “Until they threw you in here with me and chained you to the wall, I kept wishing that I thought to leave you a note on the kitchen counter, telling you I was popping out for a minute.”

“I still would have thought to look here for you first,” Bond said, stroking Q’s wrist with his thumb. “I rushed in to save the damsel, but I was caught.”

“Not funny,” Q said, trying not to smile.

Bond wanted to hug Q, but he worried about the hardware attached to Q’s torso.

“Is this something that we can deactivate?” Bond asked, waving a hand over Q’s chest.

“Maybe, if we had the right tools,” Q said sadly, looking at the mass of wired explosives.

Bond wished he had the screwdriver that he had left on Saleem’s desk, days ago. There was nothing that made him appreciate the gadgets that Q-branch developed for him more than not having one when he needed it most.

“He’s here….” Q said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Trevor.”

“Q,” Bond said, reaching for Q’s face. “Did he hurt you?”

Bond watched Q’s eyes slide closed.

Bond knew well the way that some sadistic animals treated their captives, especially if the captives were naïve boys like Q. He shuddered to think of what else Q may have suffered in the hour that he had been in the warehouse.

“Q.…” Bond whispered. “Did he… _abuse_ you in any way?” He hoped that Q would know what he meant, without making him say the words.

“No,” Q said, shaking his head, understanding what Bond implied. “Not that. He only threatened me.”

“May I hold you?” Bond asked. Bond had never needed to ask permission before. In the past, Q usually fell into Bond’s embrace without the need for consent. But Bond thought it was best to ask Q in case he had lied about the trauma he suffered at Tabatabati’s hands.

“Please,” Q said, “but you might want to be careful. There’s no telling when I’ll explode.”

Bond carefully slid one hand through Q’s thick hair and held him close with the other. The bruise on his forehead looked angry and sensitive.

“He roughed me up a bit,” Q said. “There’s a reason I’m not a field agent.” Q’s eyes told Bond that he knew how upset Bond would be at the evidence of mistreatment.

“I’ll kill him,” Bond said. 

But the instant his anger cooled, Bond realised that he had no gun and no way to improvise a weapon while he was chained to a wall.

Q rested his head on Bond’s chest while Bond embraced him. “I have every confidence that you’ll save the world if necessary,” Q said.

Bond petted Q’s hair. He hoped that Tanner and Moneypenny could rally Mallory to investigate the warehouse. Surely Tanner would be trying to reach Bond, but Bond’s mobile was undoubtedly in the hands of the enemy now.

“I’ve told Tanner and Moneypenny that you went missing,” Bond said.

“You don’t expect them to send in reinforcements from MI6, do you?” Q asked. “They probably believe whatever lies Trevor put in the emails. I can’t blame them. He was very convincing, I’m sure.”

“They won’t,” Bond lied, not at all confident that they wouldn’t. “They’ll believe you now. Tanner told me there’s conflict about Hammond’s office ordering MI6 to get rid of you. Mallory will try to use that to your advantage. I know he will.”

“We’ve got a bigger problem than identity theft,” Q said. “I think Trevor wants me to help him hack into MI6 to scramble their intelligence on arms trafficking. I can’t do it. I won’t. ISIS counts on Trevor for funding. He wants me to be a part of it and he won’t take no for an answer.”

Bond cupped Q’s chin in his palm. “You’ll do what you need to,” he said. “You’ll do what you must to stay alive.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Q said. “He’ll torture me. You know we have to follow the protocol. I only regret that I don’t have a cyanide capsule to use.”

Bond was grateful that he didn’t have his weapon. The protocol to kill the Quartermaster if he was irrevocably compromised by the enemy weighed on Bond’s mind. Apparently Q had been thinking about Bond’s obligation to kill him if necessary.

Q turned away from Bond and leant so his back rested on Bond’s chest. Bond wrapped his arms around Q, pressing a kiss to his hair. Q shuddered and stroked Bond’s hands with his own.

The warehouse was eerily quiet. Bond could hear Q’s heart beating from beneath the duct tape.

Q took Bond’s hands and squeezed them gently. He lifted them from where they rested. Bond allowed Q to move his hands, bending his elbows to accommodate Q’s wishes.

Q tipped his head back. The pale expanse of Q’s neck beckoned Bond to kiss, to tease, to bite. But instead of having passion on his mind, Q brought Bond’s hands to his throat.

“You’d make it quick for me,” Q said, stroking Bond’s fingers. “Wouldn’t you, Bond?”

Bond was horrified by the request. Q was right. He was an asset to the enemy. There was but one course of action for a double-oh agent to take. Bond needed to kill Q, with his bare hands if necessary. Q’s devotion to MI6 was unquestionable, maybe even more unwavering than Bond’s. Q was willing to go to his death, and he trusted Bond to do a proper job of it.

“Not yet,” Bond said, rejecting the proposal and dragging his hands from Q’s grasp. “I’m still not done losing your equipment and making fun of your spots.”

 _Not ever,_ Bond thought to himself. He slid his fingers under Q’s chin and turned him so they were facing each other. He brought their lips together and drowned himself in Q. With gentle touches of concern and murmured words of reassurance, Bond kissed Q, careful to avoid triggering the explosives that were attached to Q’s chest. Bond knew he must do something to get them out of their situation, but for now, it was only Q’s lips with the whispered promise of things to come.

Bond panted to catch his breath when a loud boom echoed through the warehouse. His head ached, but he didn’t relax his hold on Q, despite being startled. If anything, he clung to Q more tightly as the whirring of gears hummed from the far wall. He anticipated what Tabatabati had in mind for Q and he planned how he would deal with him.

From the white tiled wall, a door slid open horizontally as a lift deposited its riders on the floor with Bond and Q. A trio of men stepped onto the concrete. Bond recognised Tabatabati from the photograph Q had shared with him. He wore a black suit with a grey dress shirt beneath, the top button undone. His two henchmen each carried a pistol trained on their prisoners, ready to fire if Bond tried anything to evade or escape.

Tabatabati crossed the floor, but stood out of reach. He clapped his hands slowly, the smacking sound bouncing off the stark walls.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Bond breathed into Q’s hair. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Q safe from his stalker and saboteur. He’d make an attempt to get one of the pistols from a guard as soon as he had the opportunity. For now, Bond could only observe and wait for his chance.

“How very touching,” Tabatabati said, his accent as posh as Q’s, despite the time he spent away from the country of his birth.

Bond looked Tabatabati over. He hadn’t changed much in the half-dozen years that had passed since the photograph had been taken with Q, although his dark hair was streaked with grey and the lines that framed his blue eyes were deeper with age.

“I see you’ve already met Matthew,” Tabatabati said.

Bond didn’t let his focus waver from Tabatabati. He didn’t know who Tabatabati was taking about. He knew no Matthew.

“He’s a very clever boy, isn’t he?” Tabatabati asked. “The top of his class at MIT. What a shame that he used what I taught him to get ahead and graduate with honours. But when the time came to repay his debt, he forgot who he was, where he came from. He thought he was better than me. Didn’t you, Matthew?”

It took a second for Bond to register that Tabatabati meant Q.

_Matthew._

It made sense to Bond now. Q… his sister, Emily… Em…. Q’s given name was Matthew. It hurt Bond’s heart to know that Q’s cover had been blown. The revelation echoed off the warehouse walls, the years of secrecy and confidentiality relegated to something as meaningless as dust motes.

“Matthew,” Tabatabati said. “It’s so good to see you again. I hope your friend doesn’t mind if I borrow you for a while.”

Tabatabati strode to where Bond and Q sat on the floor.

“Come along,” Tabatabati said, nudging Q’s shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

The guards threatened with their weapons but stood out of Bond’s reach. Bond had no choice but to release his grasp on Q when Tabatabati dragged him to his feet. Bond’s head pounded from the blow he had sustained earlier. He hoped that Tabatabati wouldn’t hurt Q. As long as he wanted something from Q, Tabatabati would keep him alive. The explosives were merely a scare tactic.

“I have a job for you to do,” Tabatabati said.

“I only work for MI6, _Trevor,_ ” Q said, emphasizing the name.

Q’s reflexes were sharp, but not as sharp as Bond’s. Bond flinched when Tabatabati slapped Q across the face. Bond scrambled across the floor toward Q. His fingernails dug into the concrete, but he was stopped by the chain that wound around his ankles and tethered him to the wall.

Bond realised that attempting to help Q physically was futile. “That’s hardly the way to convince him to work for you,” he said, trying a more intellectual route.

Q, with his glasses askew, glared at Bond.

Bond shrugged. He had to say something to intervene on Q’s behalf. Reminding Tabatabati of Q’s value was the first idea that came to mind.

The guards shoved Q toward the wall opposite the lift. Q didn’t weigh more than ten stone. He couldn’t handle much rough treatment. He glanced at Bond as he was led away.

“That may be true in the world of MI6,” Tabatabati said when the men stopped at the far end of the room. “But you must know by now that Matthew likes it a little rough.”

Bond winced when Tabatabati reached a hand around Q and fondled his cock through his trousers.

Q groaned involuntarily. His head lolled backwards and, as if recognising this mistake, he clamped his mouth shut.

Bond bit back a growl of fury. He couldn’t bear to watch Tabatabati assaulting Q. He closed his eyes, hoping that Q would go along with whatever Tabatabati had in mind as long as it kept him alive. They could deal with the aftermath of whatever trauma Q experienced later, when Bond wasn’t chained to a wall.

“Who would have thought an MI6 agent was so sentimental?” Tabatabati said, leering at Bond.

Bond was accustomed to using his body for MI6. It came with the territory of being a double-oh agent. Although Q had many talents, Bond doubted he would use his sexuality to appease his tormentor without suffering some long-term repercussions.

Tabatabati took a remote control unit from his pocket. For one horrible moment, Bond thought it was the detonator for the hardware strapped to Q.

“If you want to blow someone from MI6 up, take me,” Bond said. “Q doesn’t work for MI6 anymore, but I do.”

Tabatabati turned the remote control over with his fingers.

Q set his jaw and closed his eyes.

The henchmen looked from Q to Tabatabati.

“That would be all too delicious,” Tabatabati said. “To have you sacrifice yourself for Matthew’s life. How very sweet. But I think it’s better to keep Matthew alive. He suits my needs quite well.”

Tabatabati wrapped his arms around Q and bit at his earlobe.

Q cringed, but he couldn’t squirm away with the weapons trained on him.

“I think I’ll keep Matthew for myself,” Tabatabati said, nodding at Bond. “And what better way to convince him to work for me than to threaten his lover?”

With a signal from Tabatabati, one of the guards pointed his pistol at Bond. 

Bond didn’t know what Tabatabati was talking about. He and Q weren’t lovers, not yet, at least. Tabatabati was a jealous fool.

“If you die, Matthew will get over it,” Tabatabati said, releasing Q from his grip. “After all, what is grief? It will pass in due time. A week… a month… a year…. Matthew should know how long it takes to get over the end of a relationship, shouldn’t he?”

Q swallowed, but made no move to answer.

“You tell me,” Bond said. “You’re the one he dropped.”

“You’ve had him long enough at Mi6,” Tabatabati snapped. “It’s time he repaid me.”

Tabatabati pushed a series of buttons on the remote control and a monitor screen dropped down from the ceiling.

“You always knew the best way to set up fail-safes,” Tabatabati cooed at Q. He stepped back from the wall and a gap opened in the floor. “And now I demand your assistance with a little pet project of mine.”

A table bearing a computer system rose from the subterranean confines below the concrete. Bond strained to listen for sirens or some indication that help was on the way, but he only heard the rotating gears as the workstation moved into place.

Q shifted nervously from one foot to the other while Tabatabati grabbed one of the hanging electrical cables and plugged it into the machine. It was clear that Tabatabati expected Q to use his skills for his plan.

Bond knew that Tabatabati held all the cards. He went to a lot of effort to change Q’s passwords. He got Q fired by hacking his email. He cancelled Q’s mortgage, his Oyster card, his credit. Bond needed no reminder that if Q failed to produce the work, Tabatabati only had to push a button to blow Q to smithereens.

Bond’s only hope to save Q was to disarm one of the guards. He planned to wait until a weapon was within reach, but all planning came to an end when gunfire erupted from the lift.

The shots drew Tabatabati’s attention. He released his hold on Q and looked to the guards as the lift doors opened.

From his vantage point, Bond couldn’t see who was inside.

As the guards moved forward to investigate, a shot whizzed through the air from above and struck one guard in the head. He dropped his pistol and stumbled backwards.

Bond looked toward the ceiling to see where the shot came from. He was relieved to see Eve perched in one of the upper windows. She focused on the second guard through the sight of a sniper rifle.

Everything happened in a split second. The remaining guard turned his attention to Eve, but she ducked out of view.

Q dove for the dropped pistol before the dead guard hit the floor. Tabatabati was faster. He grappled with Q, the pair of them rolling on the concrete while Bond and the guard watched. The guard seemed unsure whether to train his weapon on Q or Bond or the lift shaft from which a hail of gunfire exploded.

Bond wished that Q’s fight would edge closer to him so he could help. He got onto his hands and knees, stretching the chains that bound him to the wall until the metal dug into his ankles. Q, Tabatabati, and the pistol were still too far away.

Eve appeared in the window again. Bond trusted her to rescue them. Still, he hoped that she wouldn’t take a shot at Tabatabati as he and Q wrestled over the weapon. There was no knowing when the explosives taped to Q’s chest would detonate. Bond remembered how things turned out the last time Eve had fired her gun as an agent fought an enemy of the Crown. He had a ragged scar and a handful of shrapnel to remind him of it.

The beating Q had suffered earlier didn’t seem to slow him down, but Bond had never known him to be a fighter in the physical sense. Q lunged for the pistol. Tabatabati clawed a handful of Q’s hair and dragged him across the concrete. When Q levelled with Tabatabati, he grabbed Tabatabati’s head and rammed him into the desk, sending the electronics clattering to the floor.

Bond couldn’t help but feel some pride that Q was holding his own against Tabatabati. He only wished that he could help him reach the dropped pistol.

Keeping his weapon trained on the fighting between Tabatabati and Q, the guard sidled up to the lift. When he peered inside, a hard kick knocked him off his feet. Bond watched as he flailed backwards.

When the assailant in the lift came into view, Bond was never so relieved to see that Tanner had come along for the ride. Bond again found Eve on the upper level, but she couldn’t get a clean shot at Tabatabati.

In the moments that Bond had taken his eyes off Q, Tabatabati had outmanoeuvred him. He escaped Q’s grasp, scrambled forward, and grabbed the dropped pistol.

With his strength flagging, Q dove for Tabatabati but landed hard on his knees a few feet away from him.

Everything went silent in Bond’s world. He feared for Q’s life. Halfway between Bond and Q, Tabatabati hauled himself to his feet.

With empty eyes, Q watched Tabatabati aim the pistol at Bond.

By the lift, Tanner dodged a spray of bullets from the guard’s weapon. He rushed to take cover inside.

Bond saw Tabatabati’s finger touch the trigger.

Eve found her mark. She shot the second guard. His weapon fell to the floor outside the lift.

Tanner kicked at the dropped weapon. The pistol skated across the floor toward Q.

A moment later, Tabatabati fell dead, a victim of Q’s beautifully aimed headshot.

The smell of gunfire hung in the expanse of the warehouse as bullets echoed off the freshly painted walls.

Q slumped forward onto his knees.

The warehouse was silent.

Tanner held his weapon in an outstretched hand, cautiously surveying the site for signs of life. Above the carnage, Eve grabbed hold of a wide cable that descended from the ceiling. She tested its strength and deciding it would hold her, she wrapped her legs around the sheath and lowered herself to the floor.

Bond needed to go to Q. He freed Tabatabati’s pistol from his dead grip. Sitting on the floor, he put a bullet through the chain that held him to the wall. He rushed to Q’s side, draggling the jangling chain behind him.

“Q,” Bond said, wrapping Q in his arms. The rush of adrenaline coursed through Bond. He suspected Q would be in shock. “You’ll be all right. Just breathe.”

Eve jogged over and ruffled Q’s hair. “Nice shot, darling,” she said affectionately.

“My arm,” Q said, freeing himself from Bond’s embrace. “It stings.”

Bond examined Q’s arm. Blood seeped out through a ragged tear in the arm of his jumper.

“He’s been shot,” Bond said. He carefully rolled the sleeve up Q’s arm, not wanting to disturb the explosives. He inspected the wound. Q was lucky. The bullet had skimmed his left bicep, tearing the flesh as it went. Bond was relieved that there wasn’t a bullet lodged in Q’s arm, but this was too close for his liking.

“I’ll call for the bomb squad and a clean-up crew,” Eve said, taking her mobile from her pocket.

Tanner holstered his gun. “We’ve got to get Q to medical,” he said.

“We might need to patch you up here,” Bond said. Q’s face had gone as white as the walls of the warehouse when he realised he had been shot. Bond did his best to keep him calm and minimise the effects of shock. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to try to stop the flow of blood. You’ll probably need a few stitches though.”

“Thanks,” Q said, his voice not at all confident.

Bond held his palm across the wound. He could feel Q’s heart pounding.

“I had to take the shot,” Q said. “He was going to kill you.”

Bond pressed a kiss to Q’s forehead. He didn’t care who was watching. “If you must know, I’ve always trusted your aim,” he said.

“I’m with Tanner and Bond,” Eve said into her mobile. “Quartermaster down.”

Q took a deep breath. “I’m not technically the Quartermaster anymore,” he said, tossing his head toward Eve.

Bond continued to apply pressure to the wound. “No, you’re my rescuer,” he said.

Q laughed. “You make a strange damsel,” he said, laying his good hand on Bond’s chest.

Bond smiled, and from that moment, he knew everything was going to be all right.

Eve pocketed her mobile and knelt at Q’s side. “The quickest way to get these disengaged will be for you to get back to MI6,” she said.

“Do you think you can stand?” Bond asked.

“I think so,” Q said.

Bond used his left hand to help Q to his feet. His right hand held firm pressure against the gunshot wound.

Tanner pulled up next to them. “I’m going to make sure the coast is clear,” he said, hand on his pistol.

“Mallory says Tanner and I should wait here for the crew, if Bond wants to take you in,” Eve said, squeezing Q’s shoulder.

Q opened his mouth to protest, but Bond stopped him.

“You need to go to medical, but first you need to have this taken care of,” Bond said, waving a hand over Q’s chest. “It will be faster if I drive.”

“If you think they’ll accept me at MI6, I’ll go along with you,” Q said.

“Of course you will,” Bond said. Then, he lowered his voice and whispered in Q’s ear, “Besides, I have truffles.”

~

Bond woke with the warmth of Q’s hand in his, their fingers entwined in silent comfort. Aside from his eyes fluttering open, Bond didn’t move, careful not to disturb Q’s sleep.

Someone had thoughtfully dimmed the lights while they slept.

Bond’s back ached from the uncomfortable chair. He shifted slightly, craning his neck to check the Omega. It was already past noon. He gazed at Q, asleep in the standard MI6 medical unit bed. Aside from the swelling around his eye and a bruise on his forehead, he looked peaceful. Bond suspected he was able to sleep well for the first time in days, now that Tabatabati was dead.

Dawn had already broken over London by the time Bond delivered Q to the bomb squad. He had watched through the observation window while Q traded technobabble barbs with the heavily armoured technicians. A tense half-hour later, Q had been freed from the explosives, although Bond suspected it would take quite a bit of scrubbing to wash the tape residue from his skin.

They stood next to each other in the observation room when the explosives were detonated. Q wordlessly reached for Bond’s hand as they watched the shrapnel fly through the room like Guy Fawkes Day fireworks.

Q had refused to allow Bond to take him to medical in a wheelchair. He had his pride, even if the blood had soaked through makeshift bandage that they had improvised in the warehouse. Without concern for his bespoke tailoring, Bond stripped off his jacket and slipped Q’s bare right arm through one sleeve. He wrapped the jacket loosely around Q’s injured arm without even registering the allure of the smooth muscles of Q’s back or the flat planes of his chest. They quickly passed through the lobby on their way from the detonation room to the medical branch.

Bond was a bit surprised when Eve met them at the lift. “Did everything go according to plan at the warehouse?” he asked.

“Tanner is still there,” Eve said nodding her head. “It’s going well though. Q, we need to talk.”

But it was already too late.

Across the lobby, Bond watched while armed guards escorted R through the sliding doors and into the waiting van. Handcuffs prevented her from wiping her tear-stained face.

“What’s this?” Q asked, his eyes turning to Eve.

“When we were caught up in the gunfight at the warehouse, I wasn’t going to distract you with the details of the internal investigation that Mallory was conducting,” Eve said.

Bond watched the wave of disappointment wash over Q’s face.

“What did R have to do with it?” Bond asked.

“It was my hacking on Q’s behalf that uncovered it,” Eve said. “I’m so sorry, Q.”

“R had collaborated with Tabatabati?” Bond asked, although he was sure he knew the answer to the question.

Q’s shoulders slumped. “That can’t be,” he said.

“I hate to be the one to break this to you,” Eve said, clasping Q’s good arm. “She helped him hack your email account. She knew your Oyster card number, the bank where you got your mortgage, what credit cards you carry….”

“She must have been feeding Tabatabati information for months,” Bond said. He carefully wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders, trying to offer some comfort.

“I’m afraid so,” Eve said. “That’s how Tabatabati knew what accounts to disable. R fed false tips to the PM’s office to make them suspect Q was up to something. When they found the emails that Tabatabati sent from Q’s account, they had reason to fire him.”

“Without your job and with no cashflow and no place to live, Tabatabati hoped you would turn to him,” Bond said.

“He would have known you weren’t dating anyone who might have helped you. He didn’t count on Bond taking you in and looking after you,” Eve said with a wink.

Q shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I trusted her implicitly. Why would she have done this?”

Eve crossed her arms. “I’m sorry. From what we’ve learned so far, they threatened her family,” she said.

Q groaned.

“Her family meant everything to her. You know how manipulative Tabatabati could be,” Eve said.

“Poor R,” Q said solemnly.

Eve lowered her head in agreement.

“What will become of her?” Bond asked as he rubbed circles across Q’s back.

“I’d imagine the PM’s office will allow some sort of plea bargain. She may have other information that will be useful to MI6,” Eve said.

“She won’t be working for intelligence again,” Q said.

“She’ll be lucky to avoid serving time in prison,” Bond added.

“I’m sure we’ll hear more about it when Mallory has a debriefing,” Eve said. “In the meantime, he’s got the PM’s office squaring away the issues with your accounts.”

“They’ve called in the big guns,” Q said. “I wonder if this means I might get my job back?”

“You have more pressing concerns right now,” Eve said. “You need to get to medical to have that arm looked at properly.” She pressed the button for the lift and sent Bond and Q on their way.

In the medical branch, Bond had insisted on staying with Q while he was sedated so his gunshot wound could be cleaned, stitched, and dressed. A gunshot wound was nothing new for Bond, but this was a first for Q. He was never destined to be a field agent.

“You won’t feel a thing, Quartermaster,” Sandhya said as she swabbed Q’s arm with alcohol and prepared to inject the anaesthetic.

“It hurts less if you don’t watch her work,” Bond said, gently pushing Q’s fringe out of his eyes. The bruise on his forehead had turned dark purple, but Bond was grateful that the MI6 medical team found no signs of concussion. His eye would heal. He’d have a shiner for a while. The swelling was kept in check with an intermittent ice pack.

“Bond, I’m, perfectly capable of tolerating—ow!”

“Sorry, Sir,” Sandhya said from behind her surgical mask.

“Did you hear that, Bond?” Q asked with a raised eyebrow. “ _Sir..._ at least someone is keen to show me some respect around here.”

Bond clasped Q’s good hand. “That’s a positive sign,” he said. “If you behave for Sandhya, perhaps you’ll be bossing your minions around soon enough.”

“I do hope so,” Q said wistfully.

When the procedure was over and Q’s arm neatly stitched, Bond loosened his tie and relaxed in the bedside chair. Both he and Q dozed off in the antiseptic scent of the room, exhausted from the ordeal at the warehouse.

Now Bond needed to stretch desperately. He leaned closer and gently laid Q’s hand on the blanket beside him without disturbing his sleep. Bond’s back cracked as he made himself more comfortable. He wished he could crawl under the covers. He’d wrap Q in his arms and sleep the day away. Perhaps he could just rest his head on the pillow. There was plenty of room for two.

Bond eyed the doorway. He then quietly slid his chair forward and rested his cheek on the cool pillow. The lights of Q’s monitor flickered merrily, assuring Bond that all was well with Q’s health. Bond was certain that he and Q would both be called for the debriefing with Mallory. While Bond hoped that Q would be reinstated at MI6, if Q were named Quartermaster again, Bond would miss the nights they had spent together and the friendship that had grown out of this crisis. 

Q must have sensed that Bond was watching him. His good eye blinked open and his gaze fell on Bond.

Deciding Q looked no worse than when they arrived in medical, Bond gave him a crooked grin.

“Hey,” Bond said after a silence passed. He lifted his hand to touch Q’s cheek.

“Hey, Double-oh Seven,” Q said, grimacing when he moved his left arm so he could clasp Bond’s hand.

“You’ll be sore until the stitches come out,” Bond said, lacing his fingers with Q’s. “It’s best to keep still.”

Q hummed in agreement.

“Sandhya left a sling for you—” Bond said before he was stopped by Q’s lips.

Bond closed his eyes and kissed back gently, experimentally, mindful of the split lip and the bruising on Q’s face. Whatever this thing was, that they had going, it made Bond feel comforted, peaceful, and at ease. A bomb could go off in the next room and Bond couldn’t be arsed to care about it as long as he had Q beside him. He was glad that Q felt the same.

Q looked up and down Bond’s face. “Have you seen my spectacles?”

“They’re here somewhere,” Bond said, letting go of Q’s hand and finding his glasses on the table where he had tucked them out of the way lest they got more mangled.

Bond held them out to Q who took them in his right hand and expertly settled them on the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks,” Q said, blinking. He looked around the room and inquired, “I don’t suppose they’ll keep me here very long, considering I’m _persona non grata_?”

Bond settled his head on the pillow again. He found Q’s hand and clasped it in his own. “I’m guessing they’ll want you to pay a visit to Psych… in light of the circumstances around Tabatabati’s death.”

Q squeezed Bond’s hand.

“Despite what they may think, I’m perfectly alright,” Q said with an indignant huff. “I simply did what had to be done.” 

“Thank you,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He admired Q’s fingers, gentle and tender when inspecting Bond’s wounds after a mission, but strong and capable when it mattered. He let his eyes fall closed and whispered, “Thank you for saving me.”

“Nonsense,” Q muttered. He stroked Bond’s hand languidly. “I wouldn’t have saved you if you weren’t there to save me first.”

Bond looked up from Q’s hand. “Damsel,” he said.

“Rusted ball and chain,” Q retorted.

“Pretentious hipster.”

“Obsolete warship.”

A knock on the door interrupted their repartee.

“Should we call it even, then?” Bond asked, sitting back in his chair without letting go of Q’s hand.

“Ah, I see the patient is awake,” Sandhya said. She swiftly made a note on her tablet. “Feeling up to having visitors?”

“That depends on who it is,” Q said.

“Chief of Staff Tanner would like to see you,” Sandhya said.

Bond glanced at Q and smiled.

“Send him right in,” Q said.

Sandhya went to the door and motioned for Tanner to join them.

Tanner walked through the door, his boots shuffling across the gleaming floor of the medical unit. In one hand, he carried a garment bag.

“You look well-rested,” Tanner said, taking in the scene.

“I am,” Q said. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have gotten much sleep last night.”

“No matter,” Tanner said. “I’m just glad to see that you’re on the mend.”

“Thanks so much for helping me—for helping _us_ last night,” Q said, gripping Bond’s hand tighter.

“It was my pleasure,” Tanner said. “It’s not often that I get to do field work, but it’s getting to be a regular thing for me. Last year it was Mallory who got shot, and now you—let’s not let it happen again, shall we?”

“I’ll try not to,” Q said.

“What’s this?” Bond asked, motioning to the garment bag.

“I think that’s mine,” Q said.

Like Bond, Q had a change of clothes tucked away in his office for when he spent an unexpected night on comms or for when he stayed past midnight wrapped deep in a coding mystery. He could pass out for a couple hours at his desk, take a quick shower in the MI6 gym, and return to Q-branch wearing clean clothing.

“I grabbed this from your office. Mallory has sent me to fetch you both and bring you back to Q-branch,” Tanner said. “I don’t imagine you’ll want an audience with the Secretary Hammond while you’re still in your pyjamas.”

“What?” Q asked.

“There’s a meeting with Hammond in Q-branch. He took Mallory to lunch and he expects you to be there when he returns,” Tanner said. He turned to Sandhya and added, “That’s if he’s up to it.”

“You’ll be sore,” Sandhya said, “but you should be able to resume most of your normal activities. The sling will make you more comfortable while you heal.”

Bond stepped outside with Tanner while Q got dressed. Sandhya remained on hand, in case Q ran into trouble pulling on his socks or tying his shoes.

Tanner confided in Bond that he hoped the PM’s office wanted to make some sort of apology for the blunder their office made in handling Q’s dismissal. Bond agreed that the fact that he and Mallory were off to lunch could only mean good news. 

Before long, Q emerged from the room. A blue sling held his left arm immobile. Bond stepped in and fussed with his tie, making sure it laid flat beneath the hideous cardigan Q had paired with it. They made eye contact as Bond let his fingers linger on the fabric. 

The three men rode the lift down into the subterranean quarters of Q-branch. It almost seemed like old times.

“It’s good to see you, Sir,” Bradley said as he held the door open for Q and his friends. “Can I get you a cuppa?”

“That would be lovely,” Q said. “And it’s good to see you again, Bradley.”

As soon as Q stepped inside Q-branch, a crowd of minions gathered around him. Bond hoped it was a good sign that Q was so respected and admired. MI6 would be at a loss without the talents that Q had to offer.

Only a few minutes passed before Mallory and Secretary of State Hammond returned from their working lunch. The minions gave the men a wide berth, letting their superiors take centre stage at the front of the room. Everyone wanted to hear what Mallory and Hammond would say about their beloved former boss.

Bond found a spot to lean against on the back wall with Tanner. Across the room, Eve left her place beside Mallory and made her way toward her friends.

Hammond went to Q and shook his hand. They spoke for a few moments. Bond couldn’t hear what he was saying over the chattering minions, but Q nodded and looked pleased.

Taking a cue from Hammond, Mallory stepped in and raised his hands to get the attention of the minions. Things quieted down quickly as he directed.

Hammond spoke, “First of all, I would like you to join me in welcoming back your Quartermaster.”

“So it’s true,” Tanner whispered to Bond. “Q’s getting his job back.”

Eve patted Tanner on the back. “Nice work, Chief of Staff,” she said.

Tanner pulled Eve in for a brief hug.

“And secondly,” Hammond said. “I’d like to offer my apology on behalf of the Secretary of State’s office and the government of Her Majesty, the Queen. It is my honour to reinstate you as the Quartermaster of MI6. May you serve us well for many years to come.”

A smattering of applause echoed off the brick walls of the underground bunker. Bradley took the opportunity to carefully hand Q a steaming cup of tea in his favourite mug.

“Thanks very much, everyone,” Q said. “This really comes as a surprise to me, if you can imagine the events of the past few days. It will be good to be back at work.” His cheeks had turned crimson from all of the attention. Bond found it absolutely endearing.

“Maybe the State Department will leave MI6 alone now that they understand how valuable Q is to us,” Tanner said.

“That’s doubtful,” Eve said with a laugh.

Mallory shook Q’s hand before making his way across the room to where Eve, Tanner, and Bond stood. “Listen,” he said, “because Q’s cover is blown, he’ll need a guard.”

Eve raised her eyebrows.

“We can assign him a private security detail—at least for a few months, until the loose ends of Tabatabati’s arms trafficking operatives are brought to justice, right?” Tanner asked.

“Right,” Mallory said. “I’d assign Bond to it if I didn’t think they’d end up killing each other.”

Eve took Bond by the arm. “I’m sure the two of them can manage to get along,” she said.

“If it’s absolutely necessary,” Bond agreed.

“Of course we’ll put you back on missions if you start driving Q crazy,” Mallory said.

Just then, Q escaped the doting minions and sidled up to his friends.

“Ah, Q,” Mallory said when he got the Quartermaster’s attention. “Until further notice, Bond will be guarding you with his life.”

“My own private double-oh?” Q asked with a grin.

“Yes, but not to worry,” Mallory said. “You’ll be back on duty in two weeks, so you’ll be able to escape him for at least part of the day when you’re at work.”

“Two weeks?” Q asked.

“Mandatory time off for field action,” Mallory reminded him. “You’ll be back in your workshop before long, Quartermaster. Do try to keep Bond out of trouble until then.”

Bond grinned as Mallory walked away. “He knows we’re up to no good,” he whispered in Q’s ear.

“Follow me,” Q said with a glint of mischief in his eye. “I want to grab some things from my office if I’m to be away for two more weeks.”

Bond followed Q as he was ordered. He prevented Q from being jostled too much as they made their way through the crowd.

Q let out a sigh of relief when he closed the door to his office. Almost nothing had changed since Bond had last been here on the day he stole Q’s laptop.

In a fit of dramatics, Q threw himself over his desk and kissed the top of it. “I never thought I’d see my desk again,” he said. “Thanks to you, this horrible nightmare is behind me.”

Bond walked behind Q’s desk and lowered himself to Q’s body, carefully fitting his chest against Q’s back. 

“That’s an alluring position for a Quartermaster,” Bond breathed into Q’s ear. “You wouldn’t want to give your favourite agent any ideas about what might be possible in the privacy of your office.”

Q hummed softly while Bond pressed kisses to the nape of his neck.

“I lied before,” Q said suddenly.

“Hmmm?” Bond asked.

“When I said I didn’t have a favourite agent,” Q said.

He turned in Bond’s arms and let his arse rest on the desk.

Bond leaned into the space between Q’s legs and wrapped his arms around him.

“Oh?” Bond said.

Q took hold of Bond’s tie, wrinkling it hopelessly in his grasp.

“You’ve always been my favourite,” Q said, pulling Bond toward him for a kiss.

As Bond carefully kissed Q’s mouth, he wondered what on earth this ethereal man saw in him that he found appealing. He was a tired old dog, a rusty warship, but Q found the light in him. Q made Bond’s light burn brighter. Maybe that’s what it took for Bond to reconcile his future with the past that he had discarded so thoroughly. Bond craved someone who understood—someone like Q, who knew what was at stake when evil people like Tabatabati tried to take over the world. Someone like Q, who felt the recoil of a pistol in his hand and didn’t make apologies for it. Someone like Q, who knew what it took to meet the demands of Queen and country. With that understanding, Bond knew they could tackle whatever came their way, together.

~

Within moments of arriving at Q’s house, Bond had Q pressed against the wall, his face buried in his neck. Copernicus and Galileo mewled from inside their carriers while Bond made Q gasp with heated kisses, his hands sliding over Q’s arse.

Q worked his way out of Bond’s embrace and knelt on the tiled floor. He unlatched the door of each carrier so the cats could roam freely, reacquainting themselves with the home they had temporarily left behind.

With the cats tended to, Bond caught Q’s hand and tugged him to his feet again. Q seemed all too happy to stand toe to toe with him. With one arm trapped in the sling, Q used the clever fingers of his right hand to work on each button of Bond’s shirt. A fresh bandage marked the finger he had cut in Bond’s kitchen on his first day there. It rendered Q’s left hand useless for the crucial matter of undressing a lover, but Bond didn’t mind. His heart hammered as, one by one, the buttons slipped through their holes.

Q laughed when, finally, Bond batted Q’s hand away and impatiently pulled his shirt over his head without help from Q.

Bond let Q lead him upstairs to the bedroom, but not before grabbing the bottle of champagne he had stashed next to Q’s things which they had picked up from Bond’s flat.

In Q’s bedroom, Bond kicked off his shoes and popped the cork. “Cheers, Quartermaster,” he said taking a swig of bubbles directly from the bottle before offering it to Q.

Q accepted the bottle and drank deeply. “I’m not sure if it’s safe to mix this with my meds, but I don’t suppose it could do too much harm,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be here to watch over you, just in case,” Bond assured him.

Q set the bottle on the bedside table and pulled Bond onto the bed.

Bond smiled lazily as he surrendered to Q’s need for attention. He kept his hands determinedly gentle on Q’s injuries. He felt for the shape of him beneath the spare clothes Q had donned in medical and removed them piece by piece. Careful fingers and lips explored the skin as it became accessible. He hushed Q’s champagne-induced giggles, arguing that he really wasn’t the best lover in the world, despite what Q may have heard from the gossip in Q-branch. And he was sure that he wasn’t quite the ladykiller that he was reputed to be, unless Q had a penchant for stockings and heels that he wasn’t forthcoming about.

Bond pressed a kiss to Q’s sternum and slid down the covers, careful to not put too much weight on him. In the afternoon light, he glanced upward to see Q, all lusciously long and lean spread out naked before him, a feast for all his senses. It was hard to believe that Q had the capacity to cause a nuclear holocaust with only his fingertips, but Bond knew he could, and would, if it were deemed necessary.

Bond reached for Q’s hand. He skimmed a thumb across the pulse on the inside of Q’s wrist. “You won’t think I’m a terrible person for obsessing about how beautiful you are?” he asked.

Q drew his leg around Bond and caressed his arse with a slim bare foot. “And I thought you were only attracted to my intelligence,” Q said, giving Bond’s arse a pinch with his toes.

Bond reached back and grabbed Q’s foot with a firm hand. “I’ve treated people abominably, when I’ve been attracted to them,” Bond admitted guiltily. He felt Q’s heart racing as his lips brushed against his thighs. “I was a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, James,” Q said, squeezing his hand.

Bond believed him. And for the first time, he felt that the space inside him that had been hollow for so long had been filled.

Q filled the emptiness, in a spot that Bond had carved out for him alone.

Bond crawled up the bed, caging Q’s body beneath him. He pushed Q’s glasses atop his head so he could watch his green eyes as he rutted against him. He remembered the times when he ached to fuck Q, for no better reason but to prove to himself that he could. After all that had transpired, he was unexpectedly dazed by the knowledge that his desire for Q meant so much more than a quick shag with a seduced colleague.

Bond reached between them to take both their cocks in his hand. Q’s eyes were full of mischief, the fingers of his good hand digging into Bond’s hip as they kissed. Bond’s hand stroked exquisitely until they were both boneless and breathlessly sated.

Some time later, Q spoke. “Getting my photographs was a nice touch.” He stretched his good arm out and rested a hand on his bedside cabinet in a way that roused Bond’s suspicion. “If you had gone for my collection of sex toys instead, it would have been much more embarrassing.”

“Oh?” Bond said, sliding across Q’s body to reach for the drawer.

Q stopped him before he got very far. “Sorry, it’s not what it sounds like,” Q said, a blush spreading over his face.

“What did it sound like?” Bond asked, falling back to the pillow and wrapping an arm around Q’s waist.

“It’s not like I’ve had very many people back,” Q said, his fingers scratching through the short hair on Bond’s head.

“Hmmm…” Bond said, nuzzling Q’s neck. “Anyone would be lucky to get an invitation.”

“Will you stay the night?” Q asked.

“If you’ll have me,” Bond said.

Q embraced him. “Stay,” he said, as if he didn’t need to give it a second thought.

Bond’s heart filled at the sound of the word. It felt like home.

~


	6. Epilogue

Two weeks later…

Glencoe House rose from the shore of the loch where Bond spent much of his youth. The B&B featured gourmet meals and spacious rooms with the finest linens. Every evening during their stay, Q had lit the fire to warm their room. Bond should have known that Q was a pyromaniac from the way he delighted in exploding things at Q-branch.

Bond hadn’t been back to Skyfall since the Silva incident, but with two weeks to kill, the timing seemed right. Q only needed a day of walking in the vales to impress Kincade with his shooting skills. The stitches in Q’s arm made it only slightly stiff. The black eye had faded to yellow at the end of the first week. Few would even remember it, by the time they returned to MI6.

“You’re going to spoil me,” Q said one night as they watched the fog settle over the moors.

“This was the best option for a holiday where you wouldn’t have to fly,” Bond said. He took a sip of his whisky and set the glass on the windowsill.

Spring had come and the moorlands were full of life. The scent of peat and heather wafted through the open window. 

Q murmured his approval and finished his whisky. He handed Bond his glass which he set down beside his own.

Bond stayed in the window, while Q stretched behind him, fitting his limbs around Bond’s sleepy body.

Q kissed the top of Bond’s head and held him close. The warmth of Q’s love made every day a homecoming for Bond.

“I always hated this place,” Bond said. “But I’ve had to re-think it lately.”

“How so?” Q asked, leaving a few unhurried kisses on Bond’s neck, a tender press of lips on his shoulder.

“All the times I was lonely,” Bond said. “It’s almost as if I was waiting for you.”

For the first time, Bond felt comfortable looking over the expanse of granite and fog, marsh and moorland. He had often wondered how to keep his heart safe from the tragedies that had befallen him with his family, his wife, his women, Vesper, and the people he had loved and lost. But he no longer worried. Q sensed his pain and took care of it, healing all the dark places that Bond’s mind went to when he was on the brink of despair.

Bond was finished fighting the battles that sparked from having no true sense of place. The war was over. He and Q had won. In Q’s arms, Bond was finally home.

Bond inhaled the highland breeze. The wind swept over the moors like a love song.

~ The end ~

**Author's Note:**

> Blackbird was written for NaNoWriMo 2015. As a fan of shorter fics, including 100-word drabbles, I love looking at Kink Memes for interesting story ideas that will sustain me over the long haul of NaNoWriMo. I used pieces of many Kink Me 007 prompts and Tumblr fic suggestions to develop this story. Thanks to the anon prompters for their terrific ideas and especially to the anon prompter who left [this](http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=72054#t72054) gem.  
> The title, “Blackbird,” is taken from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jSRHpA2giUk&list=PLRtcf8bx7N9r9u_MntJIH_arTZCIXaWgF) song on Martyn Bennett’s album- GRIT, where the track "Blackbird" contains part of 'What a Voice, What a Voice' as sung by Scottish Traveller Lizzie Higgins.  
> I am new to 00Q, after many years in the Brokeback Mountain fandom, where it was an oft-observed tradition to name a character after the late Matthew Shepard. I was happy to keep that tradition alive in this fic.  
> This fic is dedicated to vix_spes whose hot and steamy 00Q fics made me fall in love with this bloody big ship.  
> Thanks to my friend gilli_ann, who audienced this fic during NaNoWriMo and gave me the confidence to forge ahead. Thanks to my beta lawgoddess, who graciously edited this fic for me—something that was no easy task, considering it was written for NaNoWriMo.  
> And a heartfelt thanks to [a-forger-and-a-point-man](http://a-forger-and-a-point-man.tumblr.com/), who has so warmly welcomed me to this fandom.


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